Megan Seling

Music, sugar, hockey, barf. I have written words for The Stranger, Nashville Scene, Rookie, and some other stuff. I also have a cookbook about baking things into other things. Wild! It's called Bake It in a Cupcake: 50 Treats with a Surprise Inside, and you can buy it here.

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LOOK AT THE M&MS I HAD MADE. Delicious, delicious truth. 

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I love the fat-positive movement, but I hate that it applies to me

I wrote this piece for the Nashville Scene this week. It was hard to write, as it's something I usually don't talk about, but I'm glad I did it.

I hate being fat. Other people seem to hate the fact that I'm fat, too. Strangers have told me to lose weight as I've walked down the street; TV shows and movies crack jokes about women who look like me; and when I make a self-deprecating but lighthearted joke about "my fat ass" not fitting into a dress or a narrow chair, well-meaning acquaintances have delicately tried to assure me it's not true, as though my size — my factual and undeniable physical form — were something I should not accept.

But even worse than being a fat woman is being an unhappy fat woman. As the fat-positive movement continues to grow, with blogs showcasing people of all sizes becoming confident fashion stars on Tumblr and Instagram (love you, GabiFresh!), I can't just quietly be a fat person. Thanks to the tummy that hangs over the top of my jeans, the chin the doubles up when I lower my head and the upper arms that wiggle every time I wave, I am an example that fat people can and do exist. I'm not just a person — I'm a fat person. And in a society that time and time again rejects fat people — mocks them, judges them, assumes things about their health and social status — every time I leave the house, I am forced to be a positive example.

But I'm a traitor, and I've been carrying this guilt for too long. I love that the fat-positive movement exists. I love that because of it, seemingly more and more people are learning to love and not hide their bodies. But even with all the inspiring greatness out there, I still hate that I am fat. I will kick and scream on Twitter about people who cruelly fat-shame others (looking at you, Ricky Gervais and 85 percent of Reddit users), but truth be told, I privately fat-shame myself on a regular basis. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't look at my stomach or thighs and think, "Gross."

Read the full thing here.

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Earlier today I Tweeted this because I thought it would be funny and now LOOK AT WHAT THE AMAZING ELIZABETH ORR JONES MADE BECAUSE SHE MAKES DREAMS COME TRUE.

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I tried to kill myself for the first time when I was thirteen years old. It was close to seventeen years ago now, but only in the past few months have I noticed thirteen year olds — on the bus, in line at the movies, scowling next to their parents at Old Navy — and realized exactly how young...

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by Megan Seling

Dear Friend,

You might be a moody, miserable mess, but you are not a monster. I promise. I know this because I also am not a monster, despite the fact that I spent a regrettable chunk of my life thinking otherwise. I have depression, and I learned the long, hard way that...

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Less than 20% of the bands playing this year's Warped Tour have women in them. On an individual level, female musicians make up only SIX PERCENT of Warped Tour's population despite the fact that the audience is 53% female. Why aren't more women on the stage, especially since there are so many incredible ladies in the punk rock scene right now? Because Warped Tour's founder, Kevin Lyman, doesn't think the tour has a problem. I interviewed him and some of the female musicians who are playing the festival for Wondering Sound. You can read the piece here. 

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Congratulations on the new body, Bruce Springsteen! (This would never actually happen, of course. Only female musicians with new records get cover stories about their weight.)

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I made a poo emoji cupcake! Because that’s what happens when you use a round pastry tip with chocolate frosting. It looks like poo.

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Know Your Vagina (Bands): An Illustrated Guide to the Best Bands Named After Female Anatomy

Whether it's Fred Durst insisting that he "did it all for the nookie," or Kelis bragging that her "milkshake brings all the boys to the yard," there's no shortage of lyrical love for lady parts in music's vast history. And there are plenty of vagtastic band names to match. The majority of these came from dudes obsessed with trying to gross out the world with their unapologetic perversity—Anal Cunt, Cliteater, and, shudder, Beef Curtains—but now, female anatomy, as a title, is finally being taken back by fearless feminists.

With artists like Pussy Riot, Perfect Pussy, Thunderpussy, and so many more, it would seem that "pussy" is the new black (which reminds me, there's even a Portland-based band called Black Pussy). And these great bands aren't trying to shock you with misogynistic songs about going on a "Bitch Hunt" (fuck you very much, Vulvathrone), but rather remind the world that words like vagina, vulva, and clitoris aren't disgusting, censorable terms or fuel for some guy's bullshit gore-porn act. Vaginas, and all their related parts, can be cute, badass, and/or awesome!

Read the full thing at TheStranger.com!

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Get Lost!

Stop making plans, start taking action.

Words by Megan Seling, collage by Beth.

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"Life doesn’t play well with people who know exactly where they’re going, because life is an asshole."

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Friday Playlist: The Beauty in Between

A mix that will keep you moving forward.

By Megan Seling.

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<3 <3 <3 So thrilled that I got to make a playlist for Rookie. <3 <3 <3

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Lightning! A view of the Nashville storm from our apartment. The tornado sirens keep going on and off. This is way more exciting than House of Cards.

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The Depressed Cake Shop is coming to Nashville!  Unlike other bake sales, the Depressed Cake Shop is a one-day pop-up shop that sells only gray treats as a way to bring attention to and fight stigmas against mental health issues.  The first Depressed Cake Shop was hosted in the UK by Emma Cakehead last August, and over 30 bake sales have happened across the world since, raising over $25,000. Nashville’s Depressed Cake Shop is Saturday, March 15, at the Stone Fox (they serve great brunch, too!), and admission is totally FREE. All proceeds will benefit Centerstone in Nashville. You can learn more about their work at centerstone.org. You learn more about the Depressed Cake Shop at depressedcakeshop.com. This event is open to all, so invite your friends! And here’s the Facebook event page, if you’d like to share/RSVP. 

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BREAKING GROSS NEWS: George Zimmerman Is Going to Fight DMX

You know what would be better than George Zimmerman getting beat up by DMX? Ignoring him until ran away to go live in a little gun-filled hole somewhere. While I'd love to see Zimmerman get punched in the face, he's cashing in on fame earned from killing a teenager and that's fucking gross. Don't post pictures of his terrible paintings, don't put him on TV because he's willing to box a rapper. We need to remember Trayvon Martin, not George Zimmerman.

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The Rape Joke That Ruined My Super Bowl

I just wanted to eat my weight in chips and queso and make fun of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but instead my brain and I spent Super Bowl evening dwelling on a rape joke. Specifically, this rape joke:

Don’t try uploading the Game to Pornhub because we don’t allow rape.

— Pornhub Katie (@Pornhub) February 3, 2014

It showed up in my Twitter feed after a person who I follow and know in real life to be funny and pleasant retweeted it. Reading it among all the positive excitement that comes with seeing my hometown football team finally win a Super Bowl, was a harsh, shitty dark spot that I couldn’t shake.

While these days rape jokes don’t generally phase me much (and it’s impossible to decide whether that’s a blessing or a curse), what caused this specific joke to stick in my head for the rest of the night wasn’t the joke itself (which was retweeted over 30,000 times, by the way), but rather the person’s reaction when I questioned his retweeting of it. “C’mon, dude, retweeting a rape joke?” I asked. “Not having this discussion right now,” he said.

Not having this discussion right now. Right. Because there’s a game to watch and guacamole to eat. I just wanted to watch a football game, too, dude. I didn’t want to discuss rape culture either. But by retweeting that joke, you just did start this discussion. So let’s talk.

Unlike you, I don’t get to choose when rape culture does and does not exist. I, and every other woman, don’t have that privilege. I am reminded of it every single day. I have been verbally harassed about my body at bus stops on a daily basis; my hips and thighs are critiqued by yelling strangers as I cross the street; my ass has been slapped by a passerby at a crowded music festival; my boob has been grabbed by a belligerent drunk man who cornered me on the bus at 9 am while half a dozen people pretended not to see.

And I don’t even have to leave the house to be reminded that my body and my sexuality are not my own! Once, while watching TV in my first floor apartment, a man attempted to expose himself through my living room window and the only reason he ran off was because I loudly called out to my boyfriend, who was in the other room.

This is what it feels like to be a woman every day. The fear of rape and sexual assault is real, every day. 

According to RAINN.org 346,830 women were raped in the U.S. in 2012. That’s 950 women a day. That’s 158 women during the four hours it takes to watch the Super Bowl. I wonder how they would feel about you putting rape culture on pause so you can share a shitty joke that compares their sexual violation to how Peyton Manning was feeling the moment Malcolm Smith intercepted his pass to Knowshon Moreno.

These are the things that that rape joke brought up, a rape joke you probably retweeted on a whim. And now, because of your dumb retweet, I couldn’t even get stoked about a stupid football game without having to also digest the fact that the very real rape culture isn’t an epidemic but rather a punchline used to mock the losing team.

But you’re right, we’re “not having this discussion right now.” And that’s a goddamn problem.

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I baked the 12th man into a cupcake because that's how much I love you, Seattle!

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Have you heard? The barftastic Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing the Super Bowl Halftime Show. I wrote about the breaking news in this week's Stranger.

What, was Creed busy? Couldn't afford the $500 it'd take to get Sublime with Rome? If Super Bowl organizers were looking to score a band that would appeal to both meatheads and "cool dads," why not get Metallica? James Hetfield has written some pretty terrible lyrics, but he's never sunk so low as to sing "Ning nang nong nong ning nang nong nong ning nang."

Read the whole thing (and see a picture of a chihuahua in a Seahawks sweater) here!