Meg

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I’m really bad at writing about myself. Laughably bad. I’ve spent a full week sitting on these beautiful photographs because I just didn’t know what to say. I apologize for that, for keeping these from you for longer than you had to wait for them. Since I’m feeling so terse, I’ll turn it over to some of my friends: 

“She’s brilliant.” –Albert Einstein 

“I heard she could do like, a million squats. Look at her butt!” –Michelle Obama

“Why are you e-mailing us again? Why would we want to comment on this? Please stop.” –The NYT

I’m kidding; at least, mostly. Don’t e-mail the New York Times looking for a review of your butt unless it has some pulpy nonsense written on it—maybe I should do that for my next shoot. I’m a PhD student in Environmental Science and Public Policy. I study bats (just not the ones in my belfry… maybe you could come help me out). My main source of income is modeling pinup and boudoir, because my looks pay more than my brains right now. I’m street-smart, and tough, and intense.  I’m cheeky, and silly, and look mean, but it’s really just my face. Unless you’re a creep. In which case, Beat It. 

I feel the sexiest when I’m desired. Like when my partner is reacting to even minute changes in my eye contact, or when I catch a glimpse of myself in a vaguely reflective surface. Sometimes I’m walking to my motorcycle after sleeping in my office for two days and I catch myself in the broad side of a black SUV, and I’m like, “…would I still do me?” I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth, and I still have the imprint of a keyboard down the side of my face from where I slept on it, but yeah. Yeah, I totally would. 

I feel sexy when I feel powerful. Particularly in a well-structured suit jacket with fine leather elbow pads and kitten heels after rocking a lecture. Or when I attend a New Year’s Eve Party dressed apparently like I’m attending my very wealthy husband’s funeral after he died under suspicious circumstances. Dress for the job(s) you want, right? 

So here you have it. You don’t have to wait any longer. I’m wrapped up in lights like a holiday that celebrates me. You’re welcome. Oh, and NYT? I’m going to a funeral. It’s going to be yours.

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