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Hi. I’m Megan.

I help creative, female-identifying business owners tell the ordinary stories of their extraordinary lives.

day 8

day 8


employee in a fast food restaurant
third day without sleep

“Hi welcome to McDonald’s, would you like to try our newest monstrosity?”

Thank god for muscle memory and that isn’t really what comes out of her mouth. It’s both incredibly comforting and just a bit disconcerting how easily her body can take over while her brain keeps everything mechanically up and running.

It’s been 3 days.

3 days since the floor opened up and swallowed her whole.
3 days to hold the term ‘widow’ at arm’s length.
3 days to snuggle the one child who will let her hold him and 3 days of listening at the other’s door, relying on muffled sobs then the regular breaths of sleep to reassure her all is well.
As well as it can be.

Who gets a goddamn brain tumor at fucking 28.

“Fu - I’m sorry - Pardon me - did you say a large or a medium fry?”

Doesn’t matter, she’ll give him a large with his order because he can still order fries for hi family in tow and though she was told the anger was coming, it didn’t seem the grief had settled in enough to make her mad.

This houseguest of grief was still too new, hadn’t even taken off their shoes yet. There would be time for anger. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
She finally grasped those words as firmly as the sodas she handed out the drive thru window. He was the Shakespeare buff and now she was parsing the Bard.

What a fucking joke.

day 9

day 9

day 7

day 7