Megan, 24, 0 Miles Away

About Me: I have no idea what I’m doing with my life, I’ve never been in love, and I suspect something is fundamentally wrong with me. Line forms here. 

Living In: Perpetual misery (West Virginia, for grad school)

Gender: Woman, but I still call myself a girl despite being a legal adult. Girl suggests fragility. Girl needs grace. Girl fucks up, but that’s okay–she’s a work in progress. 

Photos: 1) A full-body mirror selfie taken in a campus bathroom. Designed to look casual–just snapping a quick OOTD pic before class!–but don’t be fooled. I spent half an hour taking photos, moving my leg incrementally, shifting my phone up and down, adjusting the enthusiasm of my smile, until I settled on the exact angles that best fool you into finding me attractive. 2) A meme that says girlhood is a spectrum with Hello Kitty on one side and Kafka’s The Metamorphosis vermin on the other. 3) A closer selfie in which I wear my grandmother’s borrowed apron to plant the idea in your head that as an amateur baker I have something to offer you, and to assuage any concerns you might have about my relationship to food–it’s Definitely Normal!!!!!

Interests: Online validation, Joan Didion’s Blue Nights, the nutritional information of American chain restaurants, Mitski’s discography, walking in the sunshine, queer installment of The Bachelor franchise, scientific progress re: zero-calorie cheesecake, the psychological impact of watching America’s Next Top Model at a young age, not dying alone, getting picked up and spun around in a circle in an airport’s baggage claim while onlookers clap, cognitive behavioral therapy.

Height: 5’9. Most of it is legs. 

Relationship Goals: You love me so well that I am fixed. Don’t ask what, exactly, is broken–don’t know. I just feel like I’m doing everything wrong. When I’m standing in line at Target, walking to class, sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, it’s like everyone knows something I don’t. They understand living in a way that eludes me. But I have faith that matching with you might make my brain function right. No pressure.

Relationship Type: Monogamy. I wish I was cool enough to sleep with multiple people! The thought of a single pair of eyes scanning my body sickens me. Loose skin, protruding bones, green bruises–I am not a visual feast. You can’t sleep with other people, either, lest you realize how many better options are out there. 

Languages I Know: English (native speaker), French (the few verb conjugations drilled into my high-school brain count, goddamnit), at least 2 of the 5 love languages (in theory)

Zodiac: Cancer, right on the cusp. I don’t put much stock in astrology though. According to Google, cancers are tenacious, imaginative, loyal, moody, pessimistic, manipulative, insecure–alright, well, maybe the Universe does know something about the great blah blah blah of it all. 

Education: MFA in Creative Writing. Dating a writer is annoying–you’ll need to feed me buttered toast and stroke my hair after my fifth imposter-syndrome-freakout of the day.

Personality Type: CFLB (Control Freak Loser Bitch)

Communication Style: I will walk around saying strange shit such as “I’m like if a girl was an empty swimming pool,” and/or “I’m like if roadkill was a girl.” Good luck figuring out what the fuck I’m talking about. If I suspect you’re mad at me, I will curl up like a pill-bug in my bed and stare blankly as the sun’s shadow moves across the room, Phoebe Bridgers screaming from my phone.

Love Style: When someone pets my hair / Diet Dr. Pepper / When people lie and say I’m pretty / Walking at sunrise, when my city is asleep and the stray cats emerge from their hidey-holes to brush their heads against my legs / Poetry / The long stories at the start of Pinterest recipes where Janice from Minnesota reminisces about her childhood apple orchard instead of telling you how to make the apple pie because she wants someone to see her / Necklaces / Heart-shaped pastries / Learning new things / Dreaming of a life, with you, where I am not like this anymore

Drinking: I am petrified of liquid calories. Hopefully, you’ll persuade me otherwise. 

Smoking: The idea of being a girl who smokes fascinates me. Polaroid photograph of me sitting on a fire escape, exhaling into a dark, drizzly night, a house party buzzing through the window at my back, cherry glowing between my fingers, too cool for school. But in reality, my parents would be so disappointed. I am, at my core, a girl who wants to make her parents proud. You can smoke, but prepare yourself for loud complaints if the nicotine smell soaks into my nice dresses. 

Working Out: I am a Walker. All four seasons of the year. The daydream version of myself walks beside me. She is perfect–charming, funny, knowledgeable about whiskey, never caught unawares about the latest viral New Yorker essay, effortlessly skinny, admired by many suitors but beloved by her one and only who she probably did not meet on Tinder. If I walk far and long enough, I hope to be her someday. Daydream Megan will stare down at this neurotic, broken version, death-rattling in the street. You cannot work out with us–I will sometimes return from my walks hours later, blue-lipped. You will grip my face in your hands and press your forehead to mine like you’re ringing a doorbell. Nobody is home. 

Dietary Preference: How much time do you have?

Social Media: Addicted to and weirdly popular on X. I will probably tweet during our dates. If you don’t like them, my feelings will be hurt. Instagram is a no. I can’t stand looking at people and their good, real lives. Girls who graduated high school with me are getting married; ex-situationship just hiked the Appalachian trail; my poetry professor bakes beautiful, intricate cupcakes. Why are they so much better at living than me? What’s the secret?

Sleeping Habits: Alone. I take Melatonin at 8pm so I can stop being awake. I dream about gentle hands petting through my hair, vanilla soft-serve covered in rainbow sprinkles, good lines for new poems, and fading into dust. I like the idea of waking up beside someone else–beside you. Like we have our own secret space before the sun rises. 

Prompts for a first conversation!

My weird but true story is… My last online-match date took place at Chili’s. I thought I didn’t even like Chili’s, but it turns out that delicacies like Southwestern Egg Rolls, Big Mouth Bites, and Chicken Crispers are fucking delicious. I scarfed down way more than my half of the Triple Dipper, and dude was like Damn, girl, you can eat, so I went into the bathroom, buried my face in my hands, and screamed.

The first item on my bucket list is… Fix whatever is wrong with me. That’s where you come in.

The key to my heart is… It’s never been unlocked before.So you’ll either discover the answer, or get stuck outside. 

My favorite playlist is called… Songs for Crying on the Shower Floor

My ideal first date… Movie theater. I will guzzle Diet Coke in darkness. You can guide my weary head to your shoulder. Let me cry at the sad parts. The happy parts, too. Don’t ask why–just stroke a soft thumb along my wrist. Stay beside me when the credits roll, safe in this little liminal space where I don’t have to know anything other than where we’ve seen that actress before. Listen to the AC hum. Look at my profile in soft lighting–do you feel it, too?

Match with Megan?

Megan Williams is a writer from Pittsburgh. Her work appears in West Trade Review, HAD, Major 7th Magazine, and elsewhere. Her debut book, Twentysomething, is forthcoming.

You can tweet her @megannn_lynne or @successtextpost if you’re feeling funky.