Fuck this shit.

I can't do it any more.

Welcome to Shame Sandwich, where Megan feels equal parts shame and glee in sharing hilarious personal thought rants every Friday. Sometimes on shame, sometimes shame infused, and other times, nothing to do with shame. Warning: Usually very sweary. Enjoy responsibly.

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Disclaimer 1: If you’re my employer, I don’t legally allow you to read this.

Disclaimer 2: You’ll see I use “today” during this newsletter, which is actually yesterday, as I wrote this Thursday night.

Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Excuse my literary prose, I’m on the motherfucking prowl.

And hungry.

Prey is all around me.

Pray for me?

Nay.

Pray for shit that stands in my way.

How did I get here?

Ha.

How much time do you have?

I believe it all started when my dad’s dick sprayed the inside of my mother’s insides.

Oh, that made you flinch?

Good.

I’ll have you seizing by the time I’m done finger fucking the keyboard.

→ I’m so fucking sick and tired of being the “good girl who plays it safe”.

→ I’m so fucking sick and tired of being the “nice girl who is a wall-flower”.

→ I’m so fucking sick and tired of being the “quiet girl who doesn’t ruffle feathers”.

→ I’m so fucking sick and tired of being the “smart girl who plays it safe”.

→ I’m so fucking sick and tired of being the “invisible girl who is passed over”.

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!

Fuck you.

Fuck what you think about me.

Fuck your judgments and your assumptions.

Fuck you for wishing me ill so you can stroke your limp ego.

Fuck you to hell.

Fuck you to bloody hell motherfucker.

That’s what I want to say.

Actually, that’s what I want to scream to anyone who dares judge my judgment.

It’s also what I want to scream to myself, when I’m being honest.

Because the truth is that my haters are mostly in my mind.

And that leaves me seething.

Filled with a rage I’m not sure can be defused.

I’m the motherfucking problem?

All this time, it’s been me?

Well, yes.

But also no.

I am responsible for my choices, but not all my choices were ones I should have had to choose between.

And yet — it’s those impossible choices I found myself clawing to survive through that have led me to this very moment.

This very moment.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m going to spiral in an infinite pool of —fuck, what is life?— when I ponder the question “but did I actually have to go through this much suffering to get here?” and I’m not entirely sure I won’t drown in the overwhelm.

But.

No.

FUCK those swirling thoughts.

This is my path.

I have free will to the extent that anyone has free will.

And the Universe has been kind enough to give me nudges and hard shoves to fucking COURSE CORRECT so I can stop bitch whining and actually — actually— live the motherfucking life I want to live.

Except, it’s still hard for me to articulate what I really want because I’ve lived so long in the shadows of trying to please everyone and their dead ancestors 7 generations back and quite honestly? I don’t know exactly what I want.

I just know I don’t want this.

Working a job I HATE.

Staying silent even though it’s CRUSHING me.

Playing it safe even though it’s SUCKING THE SOUL OUT OF MY SOUL.

.

.

.

Earlier up mid-finger-keyboard-fuck-fest, I posed the question “how did I get here?”.

It’s always ironic, isn’t it?

The worst of things can truly be the best of things.

And that’s what happened today.

For this morning, I learned that my job is baaaaaaasically going to be redundant.

How’s that for a Thursday morning chitty chat with your boss?

Just a virtual pile of dung dropped on my desk, leaving my glasses steamed and my ability to provide in peril.

“We’re merging departments and this is great! This is exciting! It’s going to be good for everyone!”

Except.

Now there’s going to be two of my roles. One merged department.

And guess who’s junior and has the least “eXpeRinCe”?

This two nippled bitch, me.

Sure, my job is “safe”.

Insert eye roll of the centry.

This will allow me more time to focus on priorities!

So I was told.

Jesus Christing Cocks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Part of me wants to be angry.

Part of me wants to throw a pity party.

Part of me wants to scream.

Part of me wants to bury my head in the sand.

But there’s another emotion I’m feeling.

Rage.

But dare I say… healthy rage?

I’m also feeling relieved.

So very relieved.

You mean I now have a serious reason to get the fuck out of my company before the “oops, actually you’re redundant” conversation is skid marked all over my desk?

I cannot tell you how wickedly pleased I am.

This was the moment I had been waiting for.

Yes, I am aware how petty? weak? embarrassing? unflattering? that sounds.

But fuck it.

It’s true.

For all of the reasons… I’ve been stuck.

Mute. Frozen. Unhappy.

Desperate to become unstuck but stuck I stayed.

Until today.

This is one of those gifts — yes, gift— that gives you the choice to be jolted into action.

I’m happy my job is potentially on the line.

It was the kick I needed to my taco twat to fucking force myself to see myself in the mirror.

And then—

Something even more ironic happened today.

Get this… this morning, after the whole shit dropping on my desk situation, I put on this sweatshirt because frankly — I felt I needed all of the luck I could get.

isn’t she the most perfect sweatshirt?

And, the rest of my day went well.

I could sense this righteous rage rising and giving me a sense of confidence and ballsy attitude I haven’t felt in a long while.

And then this evening something strange happened.

I made one of my daughter’s favorites for dinner tonight: chicken salad.

Great, cool.

I love chicken salad, too.

A simple oil and vinegar, salt and pepper combo over freshly cooked chicken and salad is divine.

So my daughter and I go about our evening as usual, and right as I’m almost ready to put her to bed, my daughter looked at me and gasped:

“MOM! What happened??!?”

She was gesturing towards my shirt.

To my shock and horror, my beloved “lucky” sweatshirt is COVERED in oil stains.

OIL STAINS.

All over my beloved sweatshirt.

My LUCKY sweatshirt.

That I wore today because I needed luck.

no words

Suddenly, I could not help but laugh.

What in the actual rooster dicks is happening??????

Except.

I do know what is happening.

The Universe dumped oil all over my lucky sweatshirt to make damn well sure my attention was caught.

Let’s just say I received the message louuuuuuuud and clear:

“LOVELY BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! STOP. PLAYING. IT. SAFE. FUCKING LEEEEEEEEEEEEEAVE THE JOB YOU HATE AND BE WILD. DO WILD SHIT. HAVE A BLAST DOING WILD SHIT. LIVE. EXPLORE. GET MESSY. JUST FOR TITS AND TESTICLES SAKE STOP HIDING. STOP MUTING YOURSELF. IT’S TIME TO START EXPRESSING. SHOW YOURSELF. BE YOURSELF. YES YOU WILL RUFFLE FEATHERS AND THAT IS OK. THE DESK DUMPING SITUATION IS A GIFT. USE IT BABY GIRL, UUUUUUUSE IT.”

And that is the story of how I, Megan Lee, ended up here*.

Procreating my thoughts onto the keyboard of the notes app on my keyboard.

I know I’m on one when I can’t even use the Substack editor to write.

There are times when the words are too sacred, the thoughts too powerful to be diluted by distraction and so I write, write, write, in my Notes app.

Just me, this screen, and my words tumbling out of me at a velocity that would knock the air from your lungs.

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*I would like to say that the events of today were the tipping point, yes… but also? Every single fucking thing before this got me to this point. I’ve been praying for this day. This ability to finally, finally DO something about my circumstances instead of feeling like I’m drowning without so much as a miniature floaty. But all of that “drowning”? It wasn’t for nothing. I never stopped trying to figure out how to get from here to there. In the words of the incredible Isabelle “One day we can’t. One day we can.” The truth in that is astounding. I could not agree more. 🖤

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Where do I go from here?

Oh, I know where I motherfucking go from here.

*grins maniacally*

Some of you will remember seeing this, but several months back, during a particularly rage-filled “I fucking hate my job what am I even doing with my life” phase, I created a secondary Substack newsletter called “Women Goes on a Quest to Change her Life”.

And then… it sat.

Or rather I sat.

I second-guessed.

I got busy.

Life happens.

But mostly, I was consumed with apathy.

Hating parts of my life but unsure how to move, to act.

Until today.

When the Universe gave me the gift of a steaming desk dump and a terribly unlucky “lucky” sweatshirt.

It has lit a fire under my ass like no other.

And I’m not sure exactly what will happen in the future, but I can promise myself this:

Megan dearest, you, me, I? We’re going to fucking move, baby girl. Take action. Take risks. Speak up. Go after what lights me up. Unapologetically. Confidently. Joyfully. Because to do anything else is bonkers. To live a life under the shadow of trying to live up to fantom expectations is fucking insane!!!!!!!!!!!!! I solemnly promise to start. Start now. Start doing the shit I want to try but have always been too afraid to begin. I’ll mess up at times. That’s ok. Maybe I’ll learn I don’t like something that I thought I would. That’s also ok. Sometimes I’ll want to quit and hide and never come out again. And… I’ll sit with those feelings. As long as it takes. But I will never give up on myself. I am bursting with passion and life and energy, and goddamnit — I want to live a life where I truly live. With my soul as my guide, I’ll never be lost. <3

.

.

.

Damn. 🥹

So — if you so choose, you can follow along on my journey.

Every week I’m going to share an action diary of what I did on my Quest to Change my Life. Or something like that. You’ll get to see me create this newsletter in real time!

All I know now is that it’s basically going to be one giant naked accountability journal.

For me lord knows I’m an exhibitionist who thriiiiiiiives on accountability.

And for you.

Because sometimes?

Sometimes we just need something to jolt us awake.

And maybe I can be that for you.

At the very least, I would be thrilled if you wanted to follow along and throw me hearts and comments along the way. 🥹

Oh and don’t worry, Shame Sandwich isn’t going anywhere. Not a fucking chance.

Here’s to fucking living.

❤️‍🔥

-M

p.s. - wanna subscribe to Women Goes on a Quest to Change Her Life? Here it is!!!! The first newsletter that is yet to be written is going out on Monday, 12/8. 😳 Now I feel like shitting myself. Shit. 😂

p.p.s. - Thank you for reading. 🥹 I hop you have the beeeeeeeest fucking weekend full of the bestest energy. 🫶

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From the bottom of my tiny tits, thank you for being here. If these words made you feel, it would mean the world if you could tap the lil ‘heart’, leave a comment or share this. 🖤

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*OMG it’s December!!! Yay. Snail mail going out next week probs. 🥹🫶