This is my blog bio from 2006.

Wow. A decade ago, I was even more chatty.

It seems funny to do an “About Me” page since, well… the blog is “About Me.”

But what is the Internet for, if not redundancy? Here’s the whole story of Meg, from the top:

I was born in 1974, along with People Magazine, Dungeons and Dragons, the Volkswagen Rabbit (my parents had an orangey-red one), and UPC labels.

Despite this, I am not a celebrity, a wizard, as compact as I wish to be, or scannable.

My actual birthday, April 19th, would later see many newsworthy events, among them the end of the Branch Davidian Standoff, the tragedy of the Oklahoma City Bombings, and the election of Pope Benedict XVI. Just to name a few.

Other baby girls born that year? Kate Moss, Posh Spice, Alanis Morrissette, Jenna Jameson, Natasha Henstridge, and Andrea Corr. Good heavens.

The boys? Steve Nash, Derek Jeter, Jose Vidro, Tim Henman, and Leonardo DiCaprio.

I don’t think I have anything in common with any of those people. I’ve certainly never dated Gisele Bundchen.

I’ve only ever lived in Canada, in three provinces and one territory. I’ve not yet left North America, which is a shame — and a pretty amazing point of anticipation.

I have two parents, still happily married, and one older brother.

I live in Vancouver, BC, Canada, and have one roommate. We live in the best apartment ever. Our deck is where Jesus will return when he comes again.

I have a BA in English and Political Science, partly because I meant to go to law school, but mostly because both subjects allow me to be incredibly vague and meandering. Much like this blog.

I’ve worked as a nanny, a barista, a camp counsellor, a program director, an election official, and a freelance writer. Now I’m ensconced as a writer for an Internet company.

I’ve never: been on a reality show; thrown a firecracker at anyone; been arrested; owned my own dog; thrown a fit at anyone in customer service; caused a car accident; written a book; or killed a man.

I have: jumped off a cliff; been suspended from a bible school; eaten a spider; thrown a javelin into the sidelines of a track meet by accident; and consumed 31 shots of espresso in one day.

I have taught: windsurfing; snorkeling; basic grammar; kindergarten art; and how to administer epinephrine to an orange.

I am: single; klutzy; emphatic; email-addicted; a hand-talker; prone to wheezing laughter; and vehemently opposed to a lack of cowbell.

I know how to: make a really good pie; do basic HTML; grill the tastiest lemon chicken known to man; swear in eight languages; convince almost any baby to stop crying; break multiple bones (of my own) in a single mishap; and do convincing accents, if need be.

I refuse to: call any man “Daddy” except my father; cheer for the Broncos or the Cowboys; eat anything banana-flavoured that isn’t a banana; wear pants with more than three zippers; run naked through the streets of Bountiful, Utah; or put on shoes unless I have to.

I might try to: write a novel; go kiteboarding; live in Prague, study for my Masters in Journalism; get hitched to a decent human being; and stop doing that weird thing with my toes.

I’m better at laughing than crying. Sometimes better at talking than listening.

Logical, abstract, measured, and messy, all at once.

The worth of shock value sometimes eludes me. But I’m not as easily shocked as I used to be. Which seems like kind of a shame, at times.

Nothing makes me more angry than harm done to children. Or racism. Or willful ignorance. Or hate in the name of religion — any religion. Or the lack thereof.

When I get a bee in my proverbial bonnet, I’ll write about it for weeks. And then I’ll suddenly just let it go. Because no one should hang on to a bee longer than they have to.

I probably like hockey more than you do.

If I could be more of anything, I would be more calm, more wise, and more reticent to react.

If I could be less of anything, I would be less sharp-tongued, less easily distracted, and less prone to sarcasm. I’d love to write better, sing more, and love unconditionally.

I’ll probably sleep less, write more, and love unconditionally.

This blog isn’t about anything; it just is. I suppose if I had to describe it somehow, I would call it a love letter to being alive.

Oh, crap. That sounds pretentious.

Feel free to hang out.