MEG THE MISANTHROPE

I should rename my blog. What do you think of Picnic with a Cynic? Or the Cynical Clinic? The Finicky Cynic? Or some other cutesy alliterative or rhyming cynicism descriptor? Because, see, that's what I seem to be made of.

I'm not serious about the rename. I'm not taking some lame online poll. (I don't actually care what you think; I care what I think.) I'm just aware of what my blog is comprised of . . . "snips and snails and puppy dog tails." (What a morbid nursery rhyme by the way; if you're a parent with young ones, tear that page out of your Mother Goose book. Don't have a Mother Goose book? You're a rotten parent.)

My parent (my mother, who's a good one, for I still have my dilapidated Mother Goose book) has mentioned that she doesn't so much like my blog because everything I post is so cynical.

She probably thinks I don't listen. But I do. I heard her. So I often hesitate to post. Mother Sue is the Jiminiy Cricket in my head, and whenever I write something for this hallowed spot, my beloved Remarks from Sparks, I hear the voice of my Jiminy telling me that I really shouldn't post that; it's too cynical.

So I stare blankly at my computer screen as I hold down the backspace button. And when the screen is as blank as my stare, I stare at it some more, going cross-eyed as I try to write something that doesn't come naturally. What to write? What to write? Nada. I got nothin'. If I don't write cynical, I don't write.

Cynicism and sarcasm are my security blankets. Add a dash of humor and you've packaged yourself a set of Megan's Coping Skills. They are my tools. Oh, sure I could name off a few more tools that are kinder and more advantageous for my eternal well-being, but as I try to refine those correct life tools, it's friend Cynicism and pal Sarcasm that get me through.

I know that I've always had a knack for sarcasm, but the cynic inside me blossomed and flourished in college. Which, embarrassingly, ended six-freaking-years-ago. I am old and fretful about it (another post entirely). My literature and literature criticism courses helped me to find that oh, so cynical outlook, and it's not left me. It's become me. (Though Mother Sue would say it doesn't become me.) I place my fingers on any keyboard, and cynicism and sarcasm, hand in hand really, dance onto the screen in front of me. (It's only me, Megan Naihe, isn't it? You didn't acquire metastatic cynicism in our college courses, did you?)

My dad has joshed that I should write a week of nothing but sunshine and roses and then ask ya'll which "me" you prefer: the new sunny one or the old cynical rain cloud? Would that be better? Should I make up a new me, perhaps concoct some online alter ego that sees beauty in abso-freakin'-lutely everything?

Or do I stop writing altogether?

In accordance with the often misquoted but certainly immortalized words of Bambi's Thumper, If you can't say something nice . . . don't say nothing at all, my blog has been silent as of late.

My excuse to you all at the beginning of the week was that I had too much to do to blog. That was the truth. But not the whole truth. The rest of it is that I can't seem to say anything nice.

Now, I understand that's what you've come to expect. It's what I do. Probably who I am. I have a tasty little way of capturing my life in the most cynical of terms, and you seem to be fine with it. But the thoughts in my head these days have been particularly dark and murky, and I've thought it best to back off. One ought not use the word hate too much, you know? It's loses it's potency that way.

I hope to post more soon, as I get back to my a-little-less-cynical self.

(I'm going through a particularly tough and depressing bout of life right now. It happens. To all of us. The current confluence of circumstances and chemicals has placed me in a span of time where all things are doom, gloom, and impending Armageddon. Perhaps all isn't lost though, for I'm convinced this is not my new homeostasis, that I will find my way back to slightly brighter outlook. Not too bright now, or I wouldn't be me, would I? Do try to be understanding, will you?)