Through the course of my blog’s online presence, I’ve had some fans reach out to me, to let me know that they like what I’m doing. All but one reached out through a Facebook message. They think it’s less personal that way, but little do they know that my Facebook messenger app is always on, so I’ll respond to you, pretty much, immediately.

Meredith: OH YEA, YOU LIKE IT?
Meredith: YOU THINK I’M FUNNY?
Meredith: THAT IS AWESOME.
Meredith: WHY? TELL ME MORE.
Meredith: hello?
Meredith: u there?

Plz don’t stop writing me Facebook messages.

The lone fan to reach out to me in-person did so accidentally while I was out with him. He unintentionally referenced something from one of my blog posts, really almost quoted me word-for-word. Then had to confess to having read all of my blog posts. Then to being terrified of being featured in a future blog post. Which, I realize, I’m doing now. Hey, sorry. Text me?

So, anyways. My biggest ‘brush with fame’ came last weekend. My parent’s have a summer home, at which my whole family congregates during weekends in the summer. My siblings and I threw a 4th of July party last weekend, each inviting a handful of friends from our various walks of life.

Insulated suburban high school, top-rated public university, gentrified city neighborhood, corporate job, expensive hobby, etc.

‘Cuz I’m Slim Shady…

A few of my brother’s friends, who are more than a few years older than I am, confess at breakfast that they read my blog. Later in the afternoon after a few beers, one of them asks how my friend Sara is doing. “Who is Sara?” I ask him. He answers, “The one you write about on your blog.” I know who he is talking about but before I have a chance to say anything, he continues, “You know? The one with the boyfriend who is old-as-fuck.”

This is awkward because Sara is not her real name, but a code name I used, and the real-life Sara is standing right next to me.

It’s even more awkward because real-life Sara’s ‘old-as-fuck boyfriend’ is standing right next to her.

I laugh too loud.

Err, who wants to play a drinking game?

Later, during the ‘official’ party, more than a handful of people come up to me and tell me how much they love my blog. OK fine, I threw the party. And so what they were wasted? I didn’t even know most (one or two) of these fans, they were friends of friends. I felt just humbled by it. lol, nah. I walked around around the party interrupting group conversations to tell them that that I’m famous. If I didn’t host the party, they probably would have made me leave.

One drunk actually-invited guest solicits her third-party guest to tell me a story.

“Wait, MER,” she slurs, “She hazz. THEBESTSTORIEZ.”

I whip out my iPhone and open up the notes app and type while listening to the story like I’m Zooey Barnes working for Slugline. Really it’s just a bunch of autocorrected words strung together. This is what I remember, no thanks to my notes.

This girl’s name is Debra. She is a lesbian and told me about at date during which she and her date got food poisoning. Debra is leaving for Las Vegas the next morning, and because she can’t leave the bathroom for more than few minutes that night, she calls her dad to come over to help her pack. Her dad is supportive of her lifestyle but doesn’t necessarily understand it… nor Las Vegas, nor being a woman in general apparently. Debra gets to Las Vegas and unpacks a carry-on sized piece of luggage only half filled with sports bras, Umbro soccer shorts, flip flops, and a work blazer.

I still can’t tell if that’s funny or not. The haze of fame must be clouding my judgement.

I’m going to be transparent with this blog post- unlike the girl who uploads a flattering picture on Instagram of herself in a bikini and writes a caption about the nice weather- “Guyz, I’m famous.”