Mighty Girl
My face.

contact: maggie at mightygirl dot net

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You'll also find me here:
Mighty Goods
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ReadyMade Magazine Blog
The Morning News

I read:
Bryan Mason
Heather Armstrong
Matthew Baldwin
Sarah Brown
Heather Champ
Matt Haughey
Eden Kennedy
Jason Kottke
Merlin Mann's 5ives
Obscure Store and Reading Room
Post Secret
Andrea Scher
Melissa Summers
Evany Thomas

Scenario: My trusty companion and I hike four hours to a remote campsite to find that it's been overtaken by a Boy Scout expedition.
Characters: Group of 14-to-17-year-old boys whose food has just been stolen by enterprising raccoons.

Boy 1: They got everything, the marshmallows, the beef jerky, everything.
Boy 2: How did they get into my pack? Raccoons know how to work zippers now?
Boy 3: They took the last bag of Rasinettes!
Boy 4: Forget the Rasinettes, dude. (mock serious voice) They took the last of the plutonium.
All: Crap!!
10:43 a.m.
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Raspberry bathroom air fresheners are unsettling. The area where one defecates should not smell edible.
9:43 a.m.
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During my commute this morning, a young man collapsed on Muni. He was standing, and then he wasn't. As you may know, San Franciscans are nice people who mind their own business, but also try to help you not die when we see you collapse on the subway. In such a situation, we can be broken into five general catagories:

Oh-my-God-he's-gonna-die-right-here-on-the-subway San Franciscans
Typical commentary: "IS HE BREATHING?" "Turn him on his side! Don't let him swallow his tongue!" "IS HE BREATHING?"
Typical actions: Removing their coats to prepare for inevitable "Rescue-911" action, pushing up the aisle to administer CPR.
Nothing-a-candy-bar-can't-fix San Franciscans
Typical commentary: "He's fine." "Give him some room."
Typical actions: Passing lunch bags, peeled oranges, and Snickers bars up the aisle.
He's-obviously-a-druggie San Franciscans
Typical commentary: "Does he have any bottles on him?" "Is there a needle anywhere?"
Typical actions: Once they've ascertained that the young man is indeed breathing, these commuters glance nervously around the car, praying that a Muni official will materialize before he begins attacking fellow passengers in drug-crazed frenzy.
Leave-him-alone-you're-embarrassing-him San Franciscans
Typical commentary: Instructional silence.
Typical actions: Feigning disinterest by reading their respective copies of the New Yorker and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Wondering why no one is considering the feelings of this poor young man who has passed out on the subway but is now quite obviously fine, and why is everyone still making such a big deal of it?
The this-shit-always-happens-on-my-train San Franciscan
Typical commentary: Impatient sighs. Exasperated clicking.
Typical actions: Shifting from foot to foot disgustedly. Checking his watch. Being amazed at the guy's nerve.

I couldn't figure that last guy out until he said, "Come ON! He's fine! Can we get going already?" with a thick Jersey accent.
11:32 a.m.
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From Misterpants:

"Hey, you know how people sometimes hoot. Like at a rock concert or whatever, someone might go, "whoooo!"
Well, I'd really like it if everyone who reads this can make an effort to hoot just a little bit more. Not only at rock concerts, but also at poetry readings and just while waiting for the bus or waiting in line at the grocery.
I think it'd be cool if we all just started hearing that "whooo!" a little more often and in a wider range of situations."
10:04 a.m.
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Profound(ly odd) thought I had upon waking this morning: "'Star Trek' smells like mint."
9:36 a.m.
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Subject: Toledo and the state of higher education.
"At the University of Toledo today, the sidewalk was chalked up with all kinds of misspelled school spirit: 'Your here!' 'Sign up for the ski raceing team!' What the fuck are these people going to do?"
11:05 a.m.
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I went to my first baseball game last night, Dodgers v. Giants in the newish SF stadium. I stood and sang the national anthem, I had some cotton candy and a hot dog with grilled onions. It was a very American evening, except for one thing. No half-naked bouncing women. Not a single one anywhere. Was I not here in America--land of amply endowed, blonde women who bounce professionally? Is baseball not our national sport? Everyone seemed entertained by the game, but I pondered the sad truth. An entire generation of young baseball fans will grow to maturity without knowing the nuances of reflective spandex, the alluring twinkle of cleavage sequins under stadium lights. Wistfully, I surveyed the vast stretch of field before me. "Jenni? Tifanni? Jodi?" Two rows down, three sorority girls turned from their gaggle and looked up at me questioningly. "Nevermind," I said, and flagged the peanut vendor.
11:07 a.m.
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You're an attractive, successful man who seems to have a lot going for him. But let's say that your dating life is kind of slow, you're not getting as much action as you used to, and all the women your age want to get married. What if you were to launch a Web campaign offering$10K to the person who finds you a wife? My guess is that you'd never sleep lonely again, my friend. Ah, romance. I can almost hear the violins.
(via adnan)
12:23 p.m.
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My credit card company gave me an unsolicited increase. As you might imagine, my first thought was, “Money? What the hell am I supposed to do with more money?” Fortunately, they enclosed an informative brochure entitled, What to do With a Credit Card Increase. Apparently, when your credit line exceeds your annual income, you should take a Princess Cruise and order a digital watch that tells time in 20 different countries at once.
1:35 p.m.
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I bought leather pants this weekend, and they're fabulous. They make me want to pose instead of standing still. They make me want to take up chain smoking. They make me want to pout out angry lyrics and crawl catlike toward a video camera while underage models writhe seductively in the soft-focus background. Man, nothing screams rock star like wrapping your legs in dead cow.
2:28 p.m.
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A while ago, I finished Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. It's a modern satire with a hilarious main character. The author committed suicide without ever trying to have the work published. His mother got it published and it won the Pulitzer. My favorite parts:
  • Your total ignorance of that which you profess to teach merits the death penalty. I doubt whether you know that St. Cassian of Imola was stabbed to death by his students with their styli...Pray to him, you deluded fool, you "anyone for tennis?" golf-playing, cocktail-quaffing, pseudo-pedant.
  • My mentality, uncontrollable and wanton as always, whispered to me a scheme so magnificent and daring that I shrank from the very thought of what I was hearing. "Stop! I cried imploringly my godlike mind. "This is madness!"
  • "Santa, honey, that's a sweet little Blessed Virgin you got on top that TV," Mrs. Reilly said. ...Santa said, "Ain't it nice, though? It's a little Our Lady of the Television. It's got a suction cup base so I don't knock it over when I'm banging around in the kitchen. I bought it by Lenny's" "Lenny's got everything," Mrs. Reilly said. "It looks like it's made outta nice plastic, too. Don't break."
      11:20 a.m.
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The best headlines from the April edition of Martha Stewart Living:
  • The Finest Seasalt
  • Painting a Window
  • Ruffles: They are much more than a dressmaker's detail.
  • Ironing Ruffles and Pleats
Bonus points for an article on how to spend several hours hand fashioning and sugaring the marshmallow Peeps that you can purchase at your local grocery store for 40 cents per package. I didn't even know it was possible to make marshmallows at home. Can you see, dear reader, how I'm becoming just a little more enlightened with each passing month?
10:37 a.m.
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Subject: New Economy moment on Muni.
Characters: Young, hostile woman having a loud public conversation on her cell phone.

You didn't send them yet?! Send it. Send it now... Yes! Now... OK, what else? I'm about to go into the tunnel... What do you mean?... No, we haven't moved yet... On the 14th, why?... Would you spit it out? What do you want?... Yeah. What do you want?... WHAT? Are you joking?... No way. I'm not paying for that, why would you think that?... I never, ever said that... No, I didn't... I never, never, never said I would pay for it, you're insane!... I don't even know where you're getting that... Oh my God. No I didn't. That's $1,000, you think I just have that kind of money laying around?... WHAT? I did not say "Go to Africa, it's on me." That's a joke... Why would I say that? I don't have $1,000 laying around... Yes, I said that, and I sent you $100 for it last month. Yes... You know what your problem is? You think I'm made of money... Yes, you do. I'm beginning to see why you get so upset when I don't just send you checks on a whim... I'm not made of money, I work for it, and I have a lot of stuff to pay for... OK, look, I didn't say that, but if you thought I was going to pay for the trip, and you honestly believed that, I'll try to help out... Yeah... If I have any cash this month, I'll send it to you. OK, Dad?"
11:08 a.m.
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"By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. No, this is not a joke: kill yourself... I know what the marketing people are thinking now too: 'Oh. He's going for that anti-marketing dollar. That's a good market.' Oh man, I am not doing that, you fucking evil scumbags." --Bill Hicks

(I blatantly ripped off the link and the quote from Metascene. Thanks, Fred.)
10:48 a.m.
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Subject: More about the bad things that happen when you include the word "girl" in your blog title.

Have you looked at your search engine keywords thingy lately?!
  • Father fucking girl
  • Erotic stories of little girl pajama parties
  • Naked girl fighting
  • Thick free black girl
Man, you have all the cool parties.
3:58 p.m.
To the person who found my site by searching for "this girl i've been following:" I found your sleeping bag and toothbrush in the crawl space under my house. They're on the porch. I'm keeping the photos. (Call me.)
10:45 a.m.
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The first Sunday of every month, San Francisco pug owners gather at a local park for Pug Sunday. Imagine dozens of wheezing, perplexed pugs romping, sneezing, and peeing on anything immobile. They aimed blankly at purses, picnic blankets, each other, their owners' legs. The best part is that someone brought along a border collie, who proceeded to herd the gasping pugs into a neat little writhing circle as their owners called out, "Prudence! Prue! Come away from there!" "Winston, don't pee on that nice lady!" "Remington? REEHHHMINGTON? There you are! Oh, no. Wrong pug." Aaaaaag!
2:44 p.m.
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Subject: Modern dance.
From: A college friend.

"Dance is the bomb, and I don't need to tell you that! I wonder what Jenny Smith [college choreographer, whose name has been changed to protect my ass] is up to these days. I still think it's the funniest thing that she would always be Miss Purity, but all her dances would totally be about sex. She'd be like, 'It's not sexual. It's SENsual. Now rub your chest and roll on the ground.'"
4:45 p.m.
My friend Sean posted an almost comically offensive Black History Month lunch flyer that he found in his office. Can you believe that this was produced last year?
9:57 a.m.
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Subject: A fellow editor finds reason to celebrate.
"after this deadline is over we should have a 'we have jobs' party."
4:25 p.m.
So we had an earthquake drill at work today. I was across the street (coincidence) getting tea (sheer coincidence) when a piercing siren indicated that my coworkers should crawl under their desks and shield their necks and heads with their arms.
Now I'm concerned. Having missed the corporate drill, I fear that I will have no idea how to get under my desk and cover my head when the inevitable earthquake occurs. I will surely stand in the middle of my cube shrieking, "What shall I do? What shall I do?" as the ground opens to swallow me.
1:36 p.m.
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I have now been humming Janet Jackson's "Rhythm Nation" for 24 (waking) hours. I am near the breaking point. If my self-destruct feature kicks in and I stop posting suddenly, blame Janet (Miss Jackson, if you're nasty).
1:37 p.m.
Annie articulates the new feminist battle cry:
"Somehow, just somehow, I must stop Jennifer Love Hewitt."
10:40 a.m.
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