Thursday, December 15, 2011

Destination vacation: Azerbaijan!

I logged on to Blogger today to discover I had 53 pageviews for the day even though I haven't posted in like a week and a half. Apparently people in countries I've never even heard of and could never hope to pronounce correctly (Azerbaijan? You rock, whoever/wherever you are!) randomly found my blog on Which is freakin' awesome.

So that gloating was just to let anyone who cares know that my ambitions have been restored and I'm back on track to becoming a famous writer who makes millions of people all over the world laugh. I've been feeling blah and uninspired because it feels pointless to write sometimes and I'd rather wallow in self-pity and calories than sit down with a pen and paper. But hopefully I'll stay optimistic and post more than once a month like I've been doing... and screw anyone who doesn't like my blog or thinks I should quit altogether. You suck and you don't have to read it.

................Yeah. That's all.

Friday, December 2, 2011

You lucky gal!

Ever wonder how to make all your friends and acquaintances cry and curse your name? Or how to increase your feeling of self-worth while decreasing that of others? Well, I'm here to help.

How to be "The Bitchy Friend"

1) Constantly remind your friend of all her boyfriend's most negative traits. When her happiness with her relationship seems to be teetering on the edge of smugness, it's best to cut her down a little with a quick jab about her beloved fellow's age/job/car/clothes/house/body.

2) Make plans to spend time with your friends. Act all excited about it. Don't show up. Don't call. Don't answer your phone. Post on Facebook other stuff you're doing instead. When your friends corner you about your shenanigans, respond with this airtight excuse I've supplied for you: "All my clothes were dirty so I had to wash them before I could leave the house. While I was hanging out in my kitchen in the nude, the washer exploded and got soapwater all up in my phone's battery. So my clothes couldn't finish washing and I couldn't call to tell you I had to cancel. But my phone still lets me get on Facebook even when the battery has been soap-bombed so that's why I posted a status about my naked nacho party. Wanna hang out next weekend instead?"

3) When your friend asks for you opinion about her fashion choices, always tell her the tackiest things are flattering so you'll look more attractive by comparison. You'll head out to slut it up on Saturday and be rewarded for your efforts with a deep sense of satisfaction as everyone snickers behind your friend's back and mocks her trashbag-dress. As long as you allow her to suffer from the delusion that bedazzled overall-shorts are "cute," you'll always be the lucky gal to snag all the boys at the club.

4) Play down your friend's accomplishments or turn the situation around to make it about you instead. Make sure to mention how much better you are/were at whatever she's achieved in life. This is easy to do with comments like, "When I graduated -- well, I was 14th in my class so it's probably not the same as your graduation," or "My first apartment was a 3-bedroom 2-bath split-level with a 4-car garage, front and back porch, and walk-in closets. But your trailer is okay too."

It's ridiculously simple to make your friends feel inferior and envy your life... it's also the most effective way to boost your self-esteem and ensure that you'll die alone.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Like, Love, and Lust. But mostly Lust.

This cozy Autumn weather makes everyone all cuddly and lovey-dovey. And if you don't have a "special" friend to share that with, it sucks. Seeing all these precious couples parading through the leaves in their boots and toboggans gives me hateful hopes that they step in hidden dog poo. Because I don't get to be in love, or anything close it. Like lust. I've always wondered how people know that what they have is really love, and this is what I've come up with in my two decades of observation.

Clearly the best way to determine a couple's true relationship status is through the extent of their inappropriately sexual behavior in public. The more you kiss, hold hands, dry-hump, and go oral on your partner in front of an audience, the stronger your love is bound to be. Everyone knows that love can't be 100% true unless all your friends, family, and unassuming strangers are forced to be exposed to your embarrassing show of moaning PG-13 near-nudity. If you're comfortable enough together to play twister in the school hallway without a mat, or practice naked yoga on top of each other with your living room curtains open, then the only logical conclusion is that you must have a strong and lasting love.

If you still can't be sure that you and your significant other will one day sit on the front porch with 37 cats and matching rocking chairs, then take a look at your communication skills. By that, I don't mean how you work out your problems or if you listen to each other. What's really important are your random phone calls, texts, and mushy Facebook comments. Couples who call to "check in" every time their location changes must share a much deeper connection than I could ever dream of. Knowing that miles away, a person I care about moved from kitchen to living room is something I've never been lucky enough to experience. If you truly love someone, however, you won't stop there; you'll extend this over-communication to the public forum of Facebook. The cyberspace form of the high school makeout hallway, Facebook allows you to send one another intimate expressions of affection for all to see. A fun side effect: your territory gets marked.

It's inevitable that if you have found your special someone in life, you will gladly waste 85% of your paycheck on random gifts... whether SOS deserves it or not. Birthdays, Christmas, 3 1/2-month anniversaries, and Valentine's Day will be the most ridiculously excessive events since Kim Kardashian's wedding. Sweet and simple? Thoughtful and homemade? Forget it if you want your relationship to survive long enough to celebrate your 7-month-1-week anniversary, Arbor Day, and National Pancake Day. What you need are fireworks, sky-writing, matching new cars, and treasure chests of rubies. So save the acoustic strumming of your sappy love sonnet for your debut in a 1986 teen romance movie, you cheapskate. When people really love one another, the most exact way to express that is with a monetary value.

If a girl introduces herself with your last name, it obviously means you belong together... and that she wants you realize it. The sooner into your relationship this name-change occurs, the longer you are bound to be together. Prematurely acting like the two of you are married seems to be the healthiest way to progress with your relationship; to hell with slowly getting to know each other over time.

So I'm pretty sure I'll never be in love.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Bitch or Buddha?

Sometimes I think cutting my bangs or painting my nails will define my personality a little better or affect my attitude is some supernatural way. This always leads me to the disappointing realization that no matter how kickass my bangs look, and no matter how expertly I've applied 17 coats of hooker-red nail polish, I'm still a sarcastic, impatient, insecure, absent-minded mess with an affinity for commas and superfluous adjectives.

Ready for a night of walking the streets.
I've tried not to be those things, because those are terrible attributes to credit to yourself, but to no avail. When I abstain from sarcasm it's the worst, because I become overly polite to the point of robotic insincerity. There's very little for me to say if I've taken the vow of nonbitchyness, except things like "22 and a half" and "Dr. Pepper please."

During these spells of personality renovation, people sense my Buddha-like state of peace and strive to shatter it. Last week I had a complete stranger come into my work, and while I rang him up he lectured me about my dangerous decision to drop out of college. He told me I was making a foolish mistake and asked me if I wanted to continue to work there the rest of my life. So I ignored his words, nodded, and exclaimed, "Here's your receipt! Stay warm!"

It was the perfect balance between Bitch and Buddha. Because I got to say nice words with the clear subtext: "It doesn't matter what you're saying because I don't even know your name, you're wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and you just purchased drugstore-brand sex jelly."

That explanation was in case you thought I legitimately wanted that man to stay warm.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Short for Mohammad.

I used to go clubbing. And by "used to go," I mean that I went exactly three times. The first time, Kacy talked me into going to Greensboro with her to a mostly-black club because she was frustrated with her man-friend and needed some inappropriate dance therapy to recover. We didn't know prior to paying our way in that we were basically the only whit people there, and it wouldn't have mattered except our complete lack of rhythm felt like the focus of the entire building. But we decided that we were going to have fun, act like we didn't care about our macarena-style dancing, spend $4 for drinks, and dance with strange guys who were interested in us for our personality-enhancing cleavage.

They had a disco ball and played terrible music I didn't know, but it was okay because of the noisy friendly atmosphere and because I was hip-to-vagina with seventeen people at all times. Nobody noticed or cared that I couldn't dance, and I somehow wasn't claustrophobic even though I wasn't medicated. The last 2/5 of the light were spent dancing with one guy, who was inevitably enchanted by my tangled sweaty hair and smeared eyeliner.

When Kacy and I decided that our toes were too blistered to keep dancing, our eyes were too bloodshot to keep them open, and our throats had grown too raw to keep laughing and singing, we had to call it a night and head home. I bad farewell to my dance partner, who asked me for my number. Delighted and flattered, I gave it to him and floated home, thrilled with my exciting evening and new "romance." Because I'm only happy when I have a guy in my life.

In the following weeks, this fellow and I texted each other a lot. I found out his name was Mo (short for Mohammad. Don't judge him.) and he was from Africa. He found out I was from here and have a really boring life. I have no idea what we talked about, but he enjoyed telling me how pretty I was and discussing our different cultures. I enjoyed one of those topics.

Mo: It is so different here. In Africa, everyone is poor and works just to survive, not to go out to eat and dance and watch the movies.*

*That's not a typo. He really said things that way.

Me: Really? Gosh, that's interesting. I have boobies. And long hair. And sometimes, I wear bracelets.

Mo: Yes. I do like it in America, but some things confuse me still. What are the boobies?

Me: I haven't had sex in a year.

After a few of these in-depth conversations, we became so close that it seemed like a brilliant idea to go out on a date. And possibly get married. It sounded good to me because I get great pleasure from expensive Mexican food that other people pay for, so I let him talk me into it. We met at the mall so he wouldn't know where my house was, and rode to the restaurant awkwardly making small talk about the weather and how attractive I was. Out from under the disco lights, and through my well-rested non-bloodshot eyes, I realized not only was Mo wildly unattractive, he was old. Not creepy Hugh Hefner old, but nine years older than me. Which is 10-16 years older than most guys I get involved with.

He gazed at me in fascination as I gobbled down my cheesy chickeny rice at Mi Pueblo. Mesmerized by my chomping abilities and intriguing conversation, it was all he could to keep his hands off me. So he didn't. His greasy finger slithered down my arms, snaked around my wrist, and, my personal favorite, smeared across my face. It was like he was Helen Keller, if Helen Keller were a 29-year-old horny African man.

I was close to danger-texting Kacy so she could call me with a fake emergency and rescue me. But I really wanted to make the best of my evening out, so I stuck through the groping dinner fiasco in the teetering belief that attitude is 90% of the outcome. Bitchy Skeptical Cynic wasn't working out, so I tried on Bubbly Confident PartyGirl to see how that worked out for me. Turns out, Bubbly Confident PartyGirl makes rash decisions like agreeing to return to the nightclub where we met, driving 30 minutes out of our way, in my car, with a creepy greasy horny stranger-man driving. I don't allow BCPG to mingle anymore.

The ride tot he club was excruciating. I would've enjoyed it more if I'd been with Cujo and we both had explosive diarrhea. We nothing to talk about, but he didn't seem to realize that flaw in our chemistry. Mo, not Cujo. Cujo and I would have plenty to talk about.

Me: The speed limit is 35.

Mo: Yes, I am going to go 20 though, it is safer this way. I love to drive.

Me: Seriously? I hate driving. It's all frustrating and junk, and I get lost all the time.

Bitchy Skeptical Cynic was trying to come back a little bit.

Mo: I can drive and eat at the same time.

Me: That's... useful.

Mo: *Turns radio up* Oh this song could be about us. This is my favorite.

It was Kidd Rock's "All Summer Long." I still don't get it.

The club was jammin'. I paid $1 to keep my 6-inch stripper shoes safe in the lobby so I could get my toes flattened by pointy-heeled strangers. Mo kept my keys in his pocket for safekeeping, and tried to do the same with my phone. I wisely refused the latter so I could still danger-text if needed. It crossed my mind later that it would've been even wiser to just stay at home, eat froot loops, and fall asleep watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Mo guided me to a booth so he could continue rubbing my face and trying to kiss me. I ducked his enormous hungry lips for a while under the pretense of turning my head to enjoy the sights of drunken skanks dancing on poles and swinging. This went on so long that dancing actually seemed like a better option.

Moo seemed to have dancing confused with standing-up full-body massages. I was like, excuse me sir but can you please stop molesting me on the dance floor. And he was all, no, I'm going to put my hands in your pockets.

There aren't many tactful ways to tell a guy that you don't enjoy his slimy hands clogging up your pores when he has your car keys and you want to continue having a car. I liked having a car more than I liked having self-respect so I let him dance with me long enough to keep his feelings from being hurt. Then I exaggerated the pain in my feet so he'd pity me and drive me back to safe territory. Luckily Mo wasn't a bad guy, just a ridiculous, old, greasy guy. He drove me back to the lot where he'd left his car and told me how much fun he'd had.

Mo: I enjoyed being with you tonight and dancing with you. You dance very good.

Me: ...Right on. *Crosses arms and steps towards car, glancing around nervously*

Mo: I hope I will see you soon. You make me very happy. You will text me?

Me: I will, uh, probably text you. Yeah... oh man it's cold out here. Oh my gosh,, did you see that fire truck?! I wonder what's going on over there.

Mo: A fire probably. Like the fire burning in my heart for you.

Me: Oh God.

My dating life is pathetic.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

I could claw a bitch.

My friend Marie used to date this complete douchebag named Lenny. She was really into him because he has this charming way of clearing his throat and snorting at the same time,  and he had eleven different pairs of carpenter jeans. What a catch! He was almost as excellent as my boyfriend at the time, who mooched money off me after buying $70 video games and didn't believe in brushing his teeth. But this particular blog is about her bad choices, not mind. You can judge my relationship history later, when I can do it justice by using an abundance of offensive adjectives and embarrassing anecdotes.

Marie put up with a lot of crap from Lenny in the time that they dated, and wasted her hottest teenage years on him. She could definitely have done better, but she was determined to make it work with this moron because of how bright their future seemed to be together or something senseless like that. They broke up at least 17 times, but they got back together 16 times because he was so irresistible. The 17th time, she found out he was sexting a 12-year-old slut while on Christmas vacation with Marie's family. Did I mention he was a dumbass? He was a dumbass.

So while they were sitting right next to each other, enjoying Christmasy family time and being above the legal age of adulthood, Marie glanced at Lenny's phone and voiced her curiosity about the child pornography presented on the screen. He had his phone stealthily tilted slightly away from her, overlooking her secret ability to lean forward.

Marie: Excuse me, but who the hell are you getting boob pictures from on Christmas?

Lenny: Nobody! That was a dog my friend is trying to sell me, you silly.

Marie: ....................

Lenny: Okay. It was some girl who's obsessed with me; I met her when I was hanging around the middle school in my trenchcoat. I'm not sure how she got my number, I sure wish she'd leave me alone.

Marie: ...................

Lenny: She's always harassing me with pictures of her naked body. Like I want to see that! I'd rather see my cousin naked. But really.

Marie: ...........

Lenny: ...What?! I almost never send her pictures back!

So she left him alone with his prepubescent nudie pictures to call me and ridicule him for an hour and a half. We picked apart every obnoxious or stupid thing he had done in the past four years of their relationship and blew them all out proportion to vent our rage at him. I was merciless in my critique of his personality, hoping that the 17th time of breaking up would be the charm. I know that wasn't the best way to handle it, but he was always killing our fun with his moody presence and his bowl cut.

A few weeks after The Christmas Boob Incident of 2009, they arranged to meet at his house and give each other their stuff back so they could move on with their lives and forget about each other's existence. Her sister Kelly and I went along with Marie for moral support and because we both wanted to kick Lenny in the nads.

He had been going on about how he still loved Marie and would do anything to get her back, and we all knew it because he would say so on Facebook at least three times a week. Incessant calls, texts, and Facebook posts might scream "I'm sorry" in some people's books, but in the case of Lenny it was just another example of his scary obsessiveness.

We showed up at his house that evening to find a strange car parked in the driveway. A girl's car, judging by the Playboy Bunny bumper sticker and flip-flop shaped air freshener. Marie went and knocked on the door while Kelly and I waited apprehensively outside. We saw Lenny and some ugly girl we'll call Trashley look out the window, spot Marie's car, and pull down the blinds. Lenny answered the door about ten minutes later, exclaiming through the dip in his lip, "Oh! I didn't know anybody was here!" Kelly and I rolled our eyes at each other, leaning against the car and waiting, trying to look nonchalant so none of the ghetto people would want to mess with us. A truck pulled up with two girls and two guys in it, and Trashley lumbered out of the house to greet them and fill them in on what was goin' awn over yonder. These hicks really fit in with their troubled-inner-city-youth surroundings.

They bumbled loudly about Lenny's bitch of an ex-girlfriend, how they could take Kelly and me in a fight, and how Trashley shouldn't leave "her man" alone with his ex. Kelly glowered and cracked her knuckles menacingly. I glanced nervously from her, to them, to the door where I wished Marie would hurry up and appear. After listening to the constant haze of hillbilly-style ridicule for so long that I couldn't take it anymore, we thought we should go inside and at least check on the situation. Because we didn't want to get in a fight in the street of the ghetto at night for some reason.

The scene in the kitchen was one of recently resolved tension. Marie assured us that Trashley wasn't a girl he was seeing, just a friend of his cousin. Lenny nodded vigorously, eager to convince everyone of his innocence and uninterrupted devotion to Marie. Since the story on the streets was quite different, I raised my eyebrows skeptically at poor, hopeful, optimistic, gullible Marie and hated Lenny for deceiving her like that. I decided to call him out on being the worst person ever created; it was a long time coming, I wanted it to be dramatic, and I might not get another chance, so as I stood up from my bar stool with murder in my eyes, I collected my thoughts to counteract his story as eloquently and maturely as I could.

Me: What the FUCK, Lenny?!

Kelly: Seriously dude, we just heard --

Me: Your cousin's friend? Oh that's about as likely as--

Kelly: --called you her "MAN," what's that about if--

Me: --don't know what's wrong with, are you HIGH or just --

Kelly: --ought to kick your--

These broken accusations went on for a while as Lenny stared, mouth agape, into his defeat. He slumped further and further down with each damning piece of evidence he was forced to face. Marie looked at him in disgust so great that we all threw up in our mouths a little. She told him he deserved less than that whale girl, that he was a lying sack of shit, and that she was glad to be rid of him. Then we stood in silence, gathering spit to sling in his face then deciding not to, listening to the two couples and Trashley continue to laugh and joyful badmouth us in the living room.

We drove home, screaming our hearts out to angsty teenage songs to express our bitter rage towards all lying cheating men-scum. It was the end of an era... we weren't getting pushed around by men anymore, because Alanis Morissette and Pink told us so.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Welcome Home

Holy Toledo, I am terrible at updating my blog when I don't have Internet access. Luckily for you guys, I am hijacking my mom's computer long enough to type up this blog that I've had written down in my notebook for 3 1/2 weeks.

My best friend/assumed lesbian lover and I moved out of our parents' houses (finally) into the most beautiful old house Davidson County has to offer. That doesn't sound very impressive, but it is.

It came complete with washer and dryer, refrigerator, attic full of dead bodies and shattered dreams, and stove. We moved our endless boxes of picture frames and squiggly candle holders joyfully over the course of five days, letting everyone else haul things like our beds and granite furniture.

The basement is a cross between Buffalo Bill's lair and the end scene of the Blair Witch Project. We avoid it and pretend the doors leading to it are just weird portions of the wall with locks on it. A common, uncreepy architectural error.

There is one miniscule bedroom and one large bedroom, so we decided it would be fairest to share the giant room and have a slumber party every night. This will also help keep up our lesbian appearance, which endears us to our lesbian landladies. Kacy's boyfriend doesn't help with this facade, so we say he's her brother to stay on their good side.

Our perfect decorating skills enabled us to mix and match everything we've gotten for the house since we first started this plan two years ago. Not everybody can rock a green stove and yellow and brown linoleum, but not everybody is as clever and sexy as us.

Every single person who's seen the house has exclaimed, "Wow, that's pretty, can I come sit on your porch?! Ha, ha." and I'm getting pretty tired of pretending that it's a cute thing to say. I'm going to start training everyone not to say it by kicking them in the shins each time until they learn how unhilarious and unoriginal they are. Also it's totally not okay to not even like me or be nice to me but expect me to laugh at your stupid "jokes" and allow you to make use of my porch swing.

We've been having the most fun of our lives washing dishes, doing laundry, sweeping, sitting on the porch, and organizing things. I announced our first piece of trash in our kitchen trash can, my first dirty laundry, our first load of laundry, my first shower, the first movie we watched (Hitch), first booger picked (Kevin), first poop (Brooke), and first (and last) trip to the basement, until everyone has started to ignore the things that I say even more than usual.

Moving all of our clothes has been the most challenging part, because we own approximately the entire mall's worth of clothes. It was torture folding, hanging up, seeing if things fit me... it was like trying on clothes at the store except without the claustrophobia and when something's too small I die a little bit on the inside instead of trade it out for a larger size.

I moved all of my movies into the TVcabinet, giving prominent placing to such classics as Night at the Roxbury and Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie. When we're not busy swinging on the porch, rearranging decorations, and telling people to admire our house, we rot our brains out with ridiculous movies and marathons of America's Next Top Model.

This is my blog and I have a right to gloat on it if I want to, because I so rarely have things to gloat about. So I would like to tell everyone that my house is the most rockinest home I've ever seen, and that includes the Biltmore House. No exaggeration. Come see it if you don't believe me, and bring presents.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

A Continuation of Awkward Moments

Awkward: Not knowing someone you live with has people over. People who get to see you belting out a love song into your hairbrush while wearing Care Bear pajamas, having a bedhead mullet, and not sounding like Shania Twain.

Awkward: Someone grazing your breast by accident and everyone trying to act like it never happened, but then the conversation dies out after several minutes of not mentioning the accident and trying to act like you don't have breasts.

Awkward: Knowing you smell bad but you can't do anything about it yet so you try to stay six feet away from everyone while inhaling way too often to check on the status of your stinkyness.

Awkward: Someone asking you to do something right after you put a blob of lotion on your hands.

Awkward: The waiter bringing your food when you're in the middle of a conversation, causing you to forget what you were about to say but the other person is so delighted by their food that they don't care about you and what kind of stupid new car you're getting anymore.

Awkward: This picture:
...Or am I the only one who thinks that guy has issues and ridiculously impressive wrinkles?

Friday, August 26, 2011

5 Lies Girls Tell Guys

1. "You'll never have to worry about hearing me whine."

This is a filthy lie, told because she knows how obnoxious whining is and how much guys hate it. She knows this because of years of being told to please shut the hell up with her incessant impressions of Fran Drescher. Guys won't like her if they know the truth, so she hides it for a while until she manages to trap them in her evil web, also known as a "relationship". Her cool laid-back facade melts away to reveal a red-faced shrieking banshee intent on causing death by irrational complaints.

2. "I won't tell anybody."

...Except her mom, sister, best friend, best friend's family, co-workers, boss, pastor, pastor's family, cousins, doctor, little nieces and nephews, book club, aunts, hair stylist, dentist, pharmacist, brother, brother's basketball team, brother's basketball coach... The point is that girls gossip, especially to each other, and especially about embarrassing secrets.

3. "I don't have very expensive taste."

She just hasn't told you about her addiction to gourmet dining, Internet gambling, designer shoes/clothes/purses, antique furniture, or male strippers yet. There's always something she'll throw down wads of cash for. And if she doesn't have her own wads of cash, watch out.

4. "I'm not a bossy person."

This means that you need to be prepared to be two steps ahead of her, foreseeing things she would want you to do and doing them before she spends all afternoon pouting over your inattentiveness. Because she still wants you to do everything a bossy person would want, she simply doesn't believe she should have to vocalize it. Either way, you're expected to do crap you probably don't want to do, so it doesn't matter how she considers herself because she's lying to your and her own foolish self.

5. "It doesn't bother me that your friends with your ex-girlfriends."

WTF? Yes it does. She fears that you'll lock eyes with her over the beer pong table and realize it really was meant to be after all and then you'll go have a naked party with her and all your other exes and girls you're friends with but secretly in love with in your crazy girlfriend's imagination. If you laugh with your ex-girlfriend, talk to her, talk about her, look at her, pay attention to her in any way, then your girlfriend is thinking double homicide.

Girls are crazy lying manipulative bitches... consider yourself warned.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

5 Lies Guys Tell Girls

Everyone wants to put forth the best possible image of themselves when they first meet someone. Unfortunately, if you don't have that many good attributes, it becomes necessary to lie if you want to seem like a decent person. If your relationship with that person becomes long-term, you're expected to uphold that lie and live it on a day-to-day basis. This is a bitch so you should just tell the truth up front, even if you're a horrible person whose kisses remind your partner of Oscar the Grouch. Here are five of my favorite lies guys tell girls, both in the "getting to know you" phase and in relationships:

1. "Let's put it this way, my number is in a lot of little black books."

Whatever they say they have or haven't done, and who they have or haven't done it with, it will be a lie. He is trying to impress you with his image as a ladies' man or as a man of virtue. 92% of the time he is a mediocre lover with an average amount of experience.

2."I only play video games if I'm really bored."

When you first start talking to a guy, he is likely so enamored by your beauty and phenomenal personality that his game addiction may legitimately back off a bit. Beware, however, the guy who claims he has self-control when it comes to gaming, because he is kidding you and himself if he says you won't join the millions of women pushed to the side to make room for Call of Duty once your "new-love" phase fizzles out and you start to let yourself go.

2. "Football is okay, but I'd rather watch Phantom of the Opera with you."

Few guys are "casually entertained" by sports. If he watches sports at all, no matter how mild-mannered he appears, that means that he screams, curses, pumps his fists, cheers, jumps out of his seat, and paints his chest, so never believe that he simply "sometimes catches the end of the game."

3. "Eh, she's all right."

You should have no problem with a guy who recognizes the attractiveness of Taylor Swift and Amanda Bynes. However, he will say they're "okay" or "not his type" to seem like he doesn't have an eye for other girls. Really all these comments do is make you feel ugly because you're obviously not as good looking as Taylor Swift or Amanda Bynes, otherwise you'd be on TV or a date instead of sitting around reading my blog. You should never fall for these ridiculous claims because they're stupid and besides, if you find these girls more attractive than your boyfriend does, one or both of you is probably gay, and that tends to complicate heterosexual relationships.

4. "I love you."

This happens all the time. He is trying to get you in bed, he is confusing infatuation with love, or you said "I love you" first and he panicked and said it back so you wouldn't break up with him. If he says he loves you, wants to be with you forever, etc., and doesn't then try to get something out of you (or in to you, ha ha ha.) he may actually mean it. Look for "I love you but not really" warning signs: a) he says it only during intimate lovey-dovey time, b) he says it automatically with no emotion ("Loveya." "Luvyou2."), c) he posts glittery teddy bears with hearts for eyes on your Facebook wall.

5."You're perfect just the way you are."

Girls like to trap their boyfriends with questions like, "Do I look better with makeup on, or without?", "Should I keep my hair long or cut it shorter?", and "Would my boobs look better if they were bigger?" There are no satisfactory truthful answers to these questions, so guys are forced to give bullcrap answers like, "your natural beauty eliminates the need for makeup," "the magnificent structure of your cheekbones would suit long or short hair equally wonderfully," and "your breasts are in perfect proportion to your body." None of this means anything because you're probably a pock-marked, flat-chested mullet-haver with no idea how you look thanks to your sweet-hearted liar of a boyfriend.

If you find a guy who doesn't lie about any of these five things, please propose to him.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Awwwwwkwaaaaard... :/

Awkward: Miming to your mom how to use a Shake Weight.

Awkward: Selling a woman her husband's Viagra prescription, only to get accused of selling her the wrong medicine and interrogated about it because she wants to know what it's for and if her husband's keeping secrets from her.

Awkward: Shouting to your friend over loud music, "I JUST STARTED MY PERIOD!" or, "THAT UGLY GUY JUST GRABBED MY BUTT!" or, "CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW SKANKY KATIE LOOKS TONIGHT?!" right when the music stops.

Awkward: Someone walking into a public bathroom as you're using the mirror for picking your teeth, readjusting your pushup bra, or checking out your butt.

Awkward: Texting your friend obscene insults as a joke and not getting a response.

Awkward: Walking with someone you want to hold hands with but you can't tell if they do or not, so you swing your arms way too much in an effort to appear "natural" and "cool."

Awkward: Riding with someone you don't know very well and having nothing to talk about so you try to look preoccupied with your phone and looking out the window.

Awkward: This conversation:
Amanda: Hey! You doin' ok?"
Innocent Victim of Awkward Conversation: "Yeah, how are you?"
Amanda: "Good, how 'bout you?!"
IVOAC: "......."

Awkward: Ordering food with fatass-sounding names like "The Big Bubba Double Bacon Triple Cheese Crispy Chicken Ranch Meltdown Sandwich." Especially if the person you're with gets a salad and water.

Awkward: Slapping your friend's butt in an effort to be hilarious and spontaneous, only to immediately spot her all the way across the room, her behind nowhere near your offending hand.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

A Day In The Life

I live a life full of things that are not interesting to anybody else because stories about reading and filing paperwork don't captivate many audiences for some reason. So I'm going to highlight the events of a typical day in my life anyway because self-ridicule is fun.

6:30 -- I wake up, grease my hair back into a messy ponytail and drive, bleary-eyed, to my old high school to walk the track. Trying my hardest to push McGriddles from my mind, I alternately walk and jog laps while listening to energetic music on my MP3 player. I always skip all the first songs to get to the Savage Garden songs because I'm awesome. Any time some stranger (usually accompanied by a dog) walks by me, I try to distract them from the unshaven legs I have sticking out of my basketball shorts by making small talk about their stupid dog or how early it is. I continue doing laps until I feel that I've done sufficient exercise to not feel guilty the rest of the day.

7:30 -- I go home and read about what everyone from my past is doing on Facebook and consider doing something productive with my life after being painfully reminded of how most of my Facebook friends are married, engaged, have children, pregnant, graduating college, buying houses, and moving away. Shortly afterwards I forget all about it because there's a cartoon marathon on Nickelodeon and I want a bowl of generic store brand Cinnamon-Flavored Toasters.

8:00 -- I fall asleep on the couch despite my desire to watch The Fairly Oddparents all morning. My kitten Lucifer wakes me up at least ten times by attacking various body parts that I twitch unconsciously.

11:00 -- I wake up from my restless nap and read Harry Potter while considering how unhealthily I should eat for lunch. Knowing that I should keep my money-spending and calorie-consuming low, I go to McDonald's and get an Angus bacon cheeseburger combo. I wipe the cheese off my face and do thirteen sit-ups to smother my shame a little bit. My stomach is tricked into thinking it didn't just consume 4,500 calories in one sitting, so I continue on living my life with the guilt successfully shoved to the dark recesses of my mind where it can fester and be the death of me in a few years.

12:00 -- I start getting ready for work reluctantly, going through my routine of anti-aging processes and beautifying treatments. They don't work. I put on my most stylish dress-code-compliant outfit and drag my lazy butt to work.

1:00 -- I paste a sweet smile on my face and exhibit my legendary customer service skills anytime I'm forced to interact with customers. The rest of the time I try really hard to get stuff done but the problem is, I'm very easily confused. And forgetful. And prone to shutting my fingers in filing cabinets. Once I manage to overcome all those challenges and bandage my finger, working gives me a perfect opportunity to contemplate the meanings of my dreams, what I'll eat for dinner, how much money I need to survive this month, and what dramatic events will occur on the next episode of Degrassi.

7:00 -- I take a "lunch break" to rest my feet and eat barbeque Pringles in the break room. This time is usually spent opening my phone every twenty-five seconds in the vain hope that someone has texted me, and thinking about people I could text to pass the time. In between shoving chips in my mouth, I compose ludicrous messages that I never send because I have too much self-respect and cowardice.

7:30 -- It's almost time to close, so I start getting lazy. The store is actually open for an hour and a half after this time, but I've given up on accomplishing all my goals for the day so instead I opt to lean on the counter and gossip with co-workers who feel the same way.

9:00 -- We finally lock the doors and get ready to leave. This is my favorite part of the day.

9:20 -- I head home, wash the three inches of makeup off my face, and change into my shlubbiest lounge clothes. I spend at least twenty minutes plucking my eyebrows because people always say things to me like, "have you ever tweezed your eyebrows?", "I can tell you do your own eyebrows", "you'd be pretty if you didn't have those enormous brows", etc. and for some reason that's made me self-conscious about it. If you don't understand, check out the next-to-last picture in this blog.

9:45 -- I check Facebook again to see what people are up to without having to talk to them. Because I don't really like any of them, I'm just nosy. Pictures of girls in bikinis on beaches remind me that I should do my Shake Weight workout, so I interrupt my mom watching "The Deadliest Catch" to put in my workout video.

10:30 -- I wander into my brother's room and he keeps me there for an hour talking about movies and movie ratings. Then we remember that we have DDR and so we have to break it down, Thiel Posse style. We don't stop until we're unbearably sweaty and "Bad Romance" is permanently stuck in our heads for the next 63 hours.

12:30 -- I have every intention of going to sleep, but my brain won't calm down so I read Harry Potter to relax it a little.

2:00 -- I'm cross-eyed from reading in poor lighting. I remember I have to be at work at 7:30 and curse myself for irresponsibly staying up so late. Closing my eyes determinedly, I lie down and wait for sleep, which doesn't come for two more hours because my brain wants to keep rocking out to Lady Gaga and replaying events of the day, edited with things I should have said if I wasn't such a scaredy-cat. When I fall asleep this late at night/early in the morning, my dreams are always of being late for work, oversleeping, and being fired for missing my shift. I wake up ready to cuss someone out for looking at me wrong. People look at me wrong all day because I didn't have time to wash my hair and I have a permanent scowl on my face.

And then the whole thing repeats perpetually, with slight variances in times due to my work schedule. Having a lame life is awesomely fun!

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Happy birthday to me!

My birthday was awesome. I got to sleep until 1 p.m. with nobody harassing me to wake up and do something productive with my life. Amazing dreams based on Harry Potter flitted through my head, interrupted constantly by text messages of people telling me how spectacular of a person I was for surviving until the 22nd anniversary of the day I was born. I was oustandingly popular for this one day and everyone I'd ever met or added on Facebook expressed hope that I have the best day of my life. I could tell they meant it by their copious use of exclamation points and smiley faces.

My best friend Kacy loves me and wants me to be a fatass alcoholic so she told me she'd be taking me out for dessert and drinks that night. She would not take no for an answer (thank God). Her boyfriend was given strict orders not to call or text her while we were having our drunken girl-time, so he texted me instead to tell me how beautiful she was. Clearly his birthday gift to me was to remind me how alone and un-beautiful I was, and to make me throw up at their stupid love, which I greatly appreciated because it made me skinnier.

We went to Chili's where I ate everything I could think of as long as it was deep-fried in batter. In my defense, I'd worked up a massive appetite while waiting thirty minutes for our table and sitting awkwardly across from some attractive teenagers whom I resented for wearing denim shorts and having boyfriends.

I got a free brownie with ice cream and some shame as everyone at Chili's watched me be 22 and get sang to about it. Kacy's presents to me were a shake weight, vitamins to keep me young forever, lots of flattery, and a Rue 21 coupon so I could buy sexy new clothes that I'll never get an opportunity to wear since the only place I ever go is work. She even told me my butt wasn't flat anymore when I was trying on skinny jeans, so I immediately bought them without even looking at the price tag. Her other presents to me seemed to be backwards compliments and making me bankrupt.

I wasn't quite fat enough to suit Kacy's idea of how my birthday should be, so we went to Applebee's for strawberry daiquiris and bad entertainment in the form of karaoke. I showed the waitress my ID without being asked because I'm afraid of looking old, then later asked her if she thought I looked 21 or not. She had just turned 21 so I cursed her silently for being so young. 22 had hit my ego pretty hard by then.

My manager had given me the entire weekend off because he seemed to think I'd need both Saturday and Sunday to recover from my wild birthday. Thankfully one strawberry daiquiri didn't have that sort of effect (or any sort of effect, really) so after leaving Applebee's we tried to come up with something else we could do for my birthday that wouldn't end in regret and vomit.

There's an arcade a few minutes away from there that has Dance Dance Revolution, which is basically the most fun thing of all time and I felt like embarrassing myself. Not enough to sing karaoke, but just a tiny bit enough to play DDR in a public place while wearing heels. We danced to several songs and discovered we were good at "Toxic" so we did that one about 17 times and got pretty good at it, even on difficult. We were pretty much the coolest people at the entire arcade, which is typically a fairly easy thing to accomplish.

Once we got red-faced and sweaty, we realized there was a photo booth that would sketch your portrait for $2, which is a terrible deal but it was cute and it was my birthday so we did it anyway.

My dad is the world's worst gift-giver, so he came by my house when I wasn't there and left me two books, one I've never heard of and one I didn't care about, and a CD I've never heard of. One year he gave my mom a bathroom scale for Christmas, so nobody in our family holds very high hopes for his presents. He's kind of like Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia from the Harry Potter books, who send Harry things like a tissue or a used pair of socks for Christmas.

My mom made Boston Creme Pie and got DDR for the PS3 as a joint gift for me and Thomas, so that we can lose the weight we gain from eating Boston Creme Pie. I intend to play it every day and lose 60 pounds while continuing to eat bacon cheeseburgers twice a day.

Also Kacy is taking me to Carowinds next weekend and it will be way more amazing than last time we went because our stupid lame fun-sucking now-ex-boyfriends won't be there this time to make my special day all about how whiny and loser-ish they are instead of how fantastic I am.

Oh and the entire remainder of August is devoted to making me feel as happy and pretty as possible, so you can all get started on that as soon as you finish reading this.

Friday, August 12, 2011

A letter to my pimples

Dear Acne,

I am 22 years old now. This is no longer considered "on the brink of teenagerdom." It's quite beyond teenagerdom, in fact, and so you need to stop harassing me.

You need to accept that what we had is in the past and move on. You'll find someone new, someone young and naive enough to put up with your abuse, but as for me, I've outgrown you. I used to simply cover everything up so nobody would suspect that there was something between us. Should I really have to stoop that low? No, I shouldn't, and I can see that now in my advanced years. Covering it up just makes everything worse in the long run, which leads to more and more that I have to desperately try to hide.

I have new worries now, like Wrinkles and Fine Lines and Signs Of Aging, and I can't deal with all of you at the same time. You were never good for my self-esteem anyway; you constantly broke my heart and made me feel like the ugliest girl in school. I don't need that kind of unhealthy relationship, so I beg you, leave, and never show your ugly, scarred, red, scaly, flaky, oozing, bumpy, pus-filled face around here again.



Monday, August 8, 2011

We're all a little bizz-nitchy sometimes.

There are certain things that we all say so frequently yet we almost always mean something completely different. At least I do, so I'm going to lump all of you into a stereotype of judgment and bitchiness with me because it makes me feel better about myself.

Typical conversational statement: "Can I help you?"

Translation: "Go away so I can lean on the counter while texting and eating quesadillas."

Typical conversational statement: "Hot enough for ya?"

Translation: "I sort of know you and therefore feel obligated to make some sort of BS conversation when I see you."

Typical conversational statement: "I'm happy for you!"

Translation: "I deserve that way more than you do but I don't want to seem bitter!"

Typical conversational statement: "I just have a quick question."
Translation: "I'm going to keep you on the phone for an hour and a half with tales of my great-niece and the shapes her poo makes."

Typical conversational statement: "Have you lost weight?"

Translation: "You look less like Jabba the Hutt than last time I saw you."

Typical conversational statement: "I'm starving!"

Translation: "I haven't tasted deep-fried breading covering some sort of animal fat in at least twenty minutes!"
Typical conversational statement: "Workin' hard, or hardly workin'?"

 Translation: "You're working and I'm not so I want to rub it casually in your face under the pretense of a 'clever' play on words."

Typical conversational statement: "What have you been up to?"

Translation: "I don't remember who you are, please give me clues so I can fake it."

Typical conversational statement: "This song is so totally about my life."

Translation: "I'm starved for attention and want to make people connect this song with me when they hear it later, and also think that my life is way different from how it actually is."

Typical conversational statement: "You still working at _____?/going to _______?"

Translation: "I remember one random thing about you that separates you from everyone else I know and I will repeatedly ask you about it even if you no longer have any connection to that thing because without it you have no identity to me."

Typical conversational statement: "You look nice today!"

Translation: "What happened to the tentacles growing out of your nose?!"

Monday, August 1, 2011

Pants on Fire

Kacy requested that I post a picture of Charming Adam's best assets so everyone can swoon over him. I cropped his face out of it so that you won't recognize him and be tempted to stalk him if you should meet him in the future.

I believe the flame design is supposed to indicate his smokingness.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Library Day

My brothers and I were homeschooled. To some people this seems to mean that we were raised by wolves, but to us it just meant that when we finished our schoolwork we could go outside and have big-wheel races instead of waiting on 29 other kids to figure out what an adjective was and give three examples.

It's not as lonesome as you would think. Our mom would meet up with other "homeschool moms" (their phrase, not mine. I'm not that lame.) to form clubs and other things to trick us into thinking we were normal kids. We had a bowling league, a 4-H club, a special day reserved at Roll-A-Bout, Quiz Bowl, Battle of the Books, science club, plays, and Food Fairs, but my absolute favorite day of all was Library Day (known elsewhere as "Thursday").

At the risk of sounding like a complete nerd, my library was. The. Shit. All other libraries can suck it. If I could still go their storytime hour without being the creepiest person there, I so totally would. I've considered renting a kid so I could pretend to just be a loving parent who's really into kids' books. What's abnormal about that?

In the enormous children's section, there was a tub of weirdly-shaped plastic block things. These were perfect for weapons because Dray and I always had to play Power Rangers with our friends, embarrass our moms, and disturb the peace as much as possible. We used the slanted display shelf of books as the Command Center and from there went on our missions, which consisted of screaming "Hiii-ya! UNH!" and kicking as high as we could at the guy playing the monster,. We were always highly successful, especially me because I was the fabled Pink Ranger and the only girl, which obviously equals badassness. Not every girl raised in the '90s could say she rescued a fake Angel Grove from a fake Lord Zed without even wrinkling her floral overall-shorts, ya know.

The library computers only had one game, and it was a Magic School Bus game that loaded as fast as a top-of-the-line computer from 1994 would let it. Meaning, I slammed the mouse in frustration and banged all the buttons on the keyboard at least every three minutes. I've never been very patient. I desperately wanted to help the bespectacled ginger kid leap his way further into space one platform at a time while collecting coins, but I failed him repeatedly until I was forced to leave him and stop harming the computers with my uncontrollable brat-rage.

Every year the library had a summer reading contest for kids to promote staying literary even when school was out, or something. They had a different theme each year and all the kids were given construction paper cutouts of symbols that went with that theme. These had their names written on them and were tacked to the humongous floor-to-ceiling bulletin board in the children's room, and for every 100 pages each kid read they'd get a sticker on it. Well, I thought this was an incredible idea because I liked reading, winning, and everyone knowing that I'm winning at reading. I devoted every hour of my waking life to reading and getting so many precious stickers that I had to get multiple paper baseballs or whatever to hold all my shining tokens of accomplishment and awesomeness. I was so amazingly literary, all the other kids wished they could be homeschooled too instead of being stuck in their classrooms, not being best friends with their brothers or covered in stickers and chrome nail polish.

Once I reached a certain age, damaged all the computers, read all the books I cared about, won the summer reading contest so many times I grew bored with it, and saved Angel Grove from as many attacks as my high-kicks were able to, it was time for me to graduate from my beloved children's room and move to the small alcove for "young adults." Here I spent hours puzzling over the twins of Sweet Valley High, wondering what sex was and if I'd ever have boobs. I had never known there was more to teenagerness than what was illustrated in The Babysitters Club books, and all the new information was pretty frightening to a girl who still wore braided pigtails with dragonfly barrettes.

I was delighted, however, that some of the books in this section couldn't be finished before I left, even when my mom's gossipiest friends were sitting with her. I started taking home huge stacks of random books, unsure of what genre I would like now that I was part of this mysterious club, "young adults." I adored murder mysteries immediately, except when I couldn't sleep because a masked man with a rusty screwdriver was lurking in my closet behind my velour highwater bellbottoms. Time travel, space travel, reincarnation, telekinesis, aliens, demons, ghosts, magic, secret worlds -- anything that seemed impossible enchanted my young adult mind because I wanted there to be more to life than Asheboro, Family Matters, and wanting pizza for dinner.

I never completely grew out of that phase.

Because I wasn't quite enough of a nerd as my dad would have liked, he taught me how to play chess, and once I mastered it I would challenge kids at the library. Sitting at a table with the board set up in front of me, my feet dangling above the ground, I would grin evilly through my straight-across-the-forehead bangs at passing children. Most of them would walk away from my glare quaking in intimidation, or perhaps hurtful laughter. After each game, I would shake my opponent's hand, nod wisely, and solemnly declare, "good game" just like my dad taught me. Because nobody likes a sore winner. Then whoever I had crushed would stumble away crying and never show their face at the Asheboro Public Library again.

Nobody ever would have guessed I'd be a college dropout. Kids with a sick amount of stickers and chess victories like I had almost always end up graduating from Harvard, not dropping out of the community college.

Without all the library time I was exposed to in addition to being homeschooled, I doubt I would have become so delightful, classy, charming, well-educated, accomplished, competitive, literary, and respectful. There's eight adjectives that describe a noun (me), and I'm not waiting on you to catch up.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

How rude.

Basically everyone I know shares a hobby of saying outrageously offensive things to me. Even some people I've never met like to join in once in a while. Here are some of my favorites.

*Kacy and I were at a church function, dancing like idiots and enjoying our lives, when a stupid church-lady leaned over to us and commented, "You girls dance so much, you should be thin!"

*I used to frequently hang out at my work after my shift to talk to a co-worker because I had no life and I never got to see her. She went to ring up an elderly man who was buying two candy bars. Mistaking him for one of those delightful old people, I innocently joked, "One of those is for me, right?!" He looked at my belly, considered it for a moment, and replied, "You don't need it. You look like you should try an apple or a carrot."

*A guy I liked once told me he thought short girls were "gross and creepy."

*Some stupid high school girl made fun of me after we took a picture together because I "wasn't as photogenic as her." This isn't the same girl, it's just an example of how clearly photogenic me and my friends are.

*A lady asked me who did my eyebrows when I was minding my own business at work one day. Flattered and not expecting to be slandered, I told her that I plucked them myself, to which she responded, "Oh... yeah, I can tell."

*A blond-haired, blue-eyed girl I knew in high school liked to casually remark, as if she wasn't directing the comment at anyone in particular, "I've always thought brown eyes and brown hair are so boring, ugly, and common."

*I should never have asked my ex-boyfriend what one thing he'd change about me, because his dismaying answer was, "I'd make your boobs even."

*One of the "cool children" in middle school told me he always watched me when I went to blow my nose because my face got all contorted and disgusting.

*There was a rumor going around this past year that I was a lesbian. I have no clue where they got that idea.

*In my high school Spanish class we had group projects where we had to advertise a product. I was teamed up with a perky skinny girl whose idea was, "We can market a weight-loss drink! You can be the before, and I'll be the after!"

*People often tell me how terrible my laugh is, how it sounds like a rabid hyena, and how weird it makes my face look.

*At a concert or something like that with my ex-boyfriend, I told him I was going to the concession stand to buy some food because I hadn't eaten all day. I bought a hot dog, tater tots, and a drink, and when I returned to my seat with it he asked if any of it was for him. I politely told him he could go buy his own damn food like I'd had to do. He shook his head as if I were eating everything they had behind the counter, and asked in disbelief, "You're gonna eat all that?"

*Grumpy old people at our church liked to tell Kacy and I that we were "immature" and "needed to grow up" and "weren't serious enough" and other such elderly beliefs. So we ran around in the rain in the church parking lot during service to prove that we didn't have to do what they say.

*I made fun of myself to Kacy one day, calling myself "morbidly obese" and she asked in surprise, "Oh, are you morbidly obese? I thought you were just regular obese."

Names are changed to protect the criminally insane.

Back in the days when I was still talking to Charming Adam, I used to be a bit of a Facebook whore. I talked and flirted with a lot of different guys, some that I knew from high school or my brief stint at college, and some that randomly added me as a friend because of my extreme sexiness.

One of these stranger-fellows was five years older than me, talked to me constantly, and thought I was pretty, which significantly clouded my judgment like always.

He seemed perfectly nice and normal on Facebook and texting, so logically I agreed to meet him at his house to watch the Superbowl. I do not care about the Superbowl whatsoever but I was lonely and there was a chance that a boy might put his arm around me, so I was up for anything.

He texted me directions to his house, which was conveniently less than ten minutes away from my house. I cheerfully filled my best friend in on my exciting plans, and she stared at me as if I'd told her I was going to meet Hannibal Lector.

Horrified Kacy: "What do you know about this guy?"

Naive Amanda: "His name is Carter. He likes dogs and the American Pie movies."

Horrified Kacy: "...Do you know anything other than what's on his Facebook page?"

Naive Amanda: "Yes. I have to go or I'll be late."

At his house, I met him, his roommate, and their pet Pit Bulls, and settled in on the couch to watch the seconds on the football timer tick by. I texted Kacy every five minutes to assure her that I was not being raped/killed/harvested for organs. Other than my texting, there was almost no conversation as the guys watched the stupid Superbowl, so I felt outrageously useless and awkward. Like usual.

Carter was ridiculously short; he was probably shorter than me, and I'm only 5'3&1/2" but I was in no position to be picky. He put his arm around me and I was perfectly content with my life. We even kissed after the game, which wasn't quite as magical as I'd hoped. He came at me tongue-first and I had some trouble breathing that way, but I think I took it like a champ. Every girl has to experience at least one guy who relies that heavily on his tongue while kissing... it's like a rite of passage sort of thing. If you survive it, you are now a woman.

After I became a woman, I went on about my life and we continued texting each other but not really finding anything out about each other. I don't know how two people could talk so frequently and not get to know each other at all, but we managed it. Carter invited me over to his house later that week, to which I replied, "hell to the yeah." I was used to guys losing interest quickly so this was a nice change of pace. I went to his house, where we laid down and watched some movie that I didn't pay attention to because I was nervous that he might want to boink me and I couldn't remember if I'd shaved my legs or not.

Instead, something even more horrifying happened.

He got a bitchy text from his ex and started crying. I don't mean just a couple of tears that he wiped away before I could see them. I mean huge, wracking sobs from the depths of his soul.

I stared at him and patted his shoulder awkwardly, wishing I never would've met him because I couldn't handle this situation. It was a very selfish thought but I didn't judge myself for having it cross my mind. When he finally wiped away the last of his man-tears, he looked up at me with pitiful eyes and tried to ruin my life.

Crazy Carter: "I don't know why you care about me crying. You can leave if you want. My life is nothing but darkness."

Amanda: "Um, well, I'm not going to leave anyone alone while they cry." (No matter how much I want to.)

Crazy Carter: "I should just die, nobody would care or notice anyway, I hate myself so much."

Amanda: "Oh dear. Oh God. Just, calm down, it's okay."

Crazy Carter: "Darkness, sorrow. I'm leaving for the army next month. Will you wait for me? Despair, gloom."

Amanda: *Miserable* "I..."

Crazy Carter: *Starts crying again*

Amanda: "...Yes, okay?"

Crazy Carter: "Oh okay, good." *Puts in a new movie and hums "Sk8r Boi" by Avril Lavigne*

Amanda: *Guilt, regret, fear, confusion*

I was no longer lonely or desperate enough to enjoy time with this guy, nor did I have the capability of helping him deal with his horrifying problems. One of these problems made itself quite apparent to me as time went on: obsession mixed with possessiveness. He began to text, call, and Facebook-message me incessantly, usually when I had no way to respond.

(5:40 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "What are you doing?"

(5:42 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "I guess you're too busy for me."

(5:43 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "I should've known you were just like my ex, she never answered me either."

(5:50 p.m.) Amanda: "I'm at work..."

(5:51 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "Yeah you're so wrapped up in your stupid work, whatever, you don't even care about how I need you and stuff. Give me attention."

(5:54 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "My ex is being mean to me and I'm so sad and alone. Wahhhhhhh."

(6:00 p.m.) Amanda: "I know what you mean..."

(6:01 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "No you'd never understand. Nobody understands how hard my life is. My ex is so mean to me, she told me she didn't want to talk to me ever again. I don't need this."

(6:10 p.m.) Amanda: "Well I dated a guy for two years and two months, we just broke up a couple months ago and it's rough. I understand how you feel and stuff. Please accept my sympathy and stop the craziness."

(6:11 p.m.) Crazy Carter: "No, me and her dated for three meaningful years, which is exactly ten months longer than your relationship. So you don't get it. Stop acting like you understand me. Nobody understands me and I like it that way."

We went through this consistently for a few weeks. I wanted to tell him off but I knew that he drank alcohol and OD'd on Tylenol the night he basically asked me to marry him, and I was afraid of what he might do. The concept of me being at work, driving, or doing other activities that prevented me from responding to his text messages completely went over his head. I had to be readily available to him at all times so that I could be bitched at for simultaneously not understanding him and trying too hard to understand him.

On Valentine's Day Carter made me a dinner of undercooked chicken and corn, which was nicer than any other meal a guy had cooked for me. I got him a red stuffed dog with giant eyes, and he got me one as well even though I hate dogs.

He became furious when I wouldn't perform certain Valentine's Day-related acts that I was uncomfortable with and he threw the dog in his closet saying he didn't care anymore.

I cried and drove home in a Valentine's Day super-blizzard at 1:00 a.m., skidding on ice and my confused tears.

He continued texting me like nothing was wrong, but I'd finally had enough. He was not my responsibility, and even though his problems broke my fragile little heart, I have always had a maximum capacity of one for crazy people in my life, and that position was filled by me. So I made the difficult decision to avoid all contact with him. This decision was difficult not just because of my tender, caring soul, but because his contact with me was ridiculously frequent.

Crazy Carter: "Hey."

Crazy Carter: "You can come over tonight if you want, but I'm drunk."

Crazy Carter: "Stop ignoring me and give me the attention I deserve."

Amanda: "I can't do this anymore, dude."

Crazy Carter: "Whatever, I don't care about you anyway because you've never really cared about me. You're just like my ex-girlfriend, have I ever told you about her? She was a bitch."

Crazy Carter: "Baby please answer me. I just want to see you."

Crazy Carter: "What's your fucking problem?"

Crazy Carter: "I'm sorry if I've hurt you or if you've found someone else, just don't leave me, please, I'm needier than I let on."

Crazy Carter: *Cling, cling, whine, anger, guilt*

Crazy Carter: "I was falling in love with you but if you don't care about me then I guess I'll stop loving you. My ex, who was a bitch, didn't love me either."

I deleted him from Facebook and spent the next six months getting an escort to my car after work so he wouldn't be able to stalk me.

Thankfully my enchanting fairytale date with Charming Adam weeks later changed my mind about meeting guys on Facebook.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Things I was too lazy to do

I announced on Facebook one day that I was having trouble writing, hoping to get some suggestions or at the very least some attention. One of my friends is a blogger and she advised me to make lists of things to help organize my thoughts, giving me several examples of lists that could lead to funny or interesting stories. I told her that I'd thought about it but that I'd been too lazy to actually do it, and she added the title of another list, "things I was too lazy to do." 

That's where this blog came from, and I have added a link to her hilariously inappropriate blog at the bottom of this page. I'm not putting it up here on the top because then you'll navigate away before reading my blog and never come back. 

Things I was too lazy to do

1) Go to college

I did really well at the community college... my first semester. Then I discovered the magic of skipping class. First it was just once in a while when I thought I deserved a personal day to wear basketball shorts and a tank top, watch Degrassi, and eat bacon pizza. It quickly escalated into the realization that this lifestyle was much less stressful and that I could easily get used to it.

My grades started to slip as I spent more and more days sleeping in and rotting my brain on the computer. I didn't care after a while because I didn't even have a major picked out. What was the point? I'd go back when I figured my life out.

Unfortunately, I wasn't presented with many opportunities to figure my life out on my couch. All I was presented with was sixty extra pounds of fat to strap on to my thighs and belly. As my clothes started getting smaller, so did my list of options for the future. I had no experience, no education, no prospects, no hope, and no waist.

Everyone I know loves to harass me about going back to college and becoming a successful something-or-other. I nod and pretend to take their nosy, offensive suggestions into consideration, then go home and spend nine hours doing sudokus and texting about what color I should dye my hair.

2) Pay my bills

I ended up in the emergency room last August when I had strep throat, tonsillitis, and a lymph node infection. I didn't have insurance so they charged me more money than I make in a year. At the time the thought of the cost didn't bother me, because my throat was almost completely closed off on one side and I thought I was going to die.

I got my bill in the mail a couple weeks later, cried, and tried to forget about it. The thought of my outrageous debt filled me with guilt and fear, so I avoided calling to set up a payment plan. If I ignored it, it would go away until I could somehow deal with it.

Incredibly, it did go away; I don't get bills from the hospital anymore.

Now I get threatening letters from a collection agency.

3) Exercise

Every single day I make a promise to myself that I'm going to work out, lose weight, and regain the hotness of my late teenage years. In bed at night I imagine running for miles, shedding layers of fat behind me. But then when I try to run, I don't get much further than tying my shoes before I give up and read Cosmo in front of the TV instead. Even the sexy airbrushed magazine girls have trouble convincing me to get off my ass.

I play Wii Fit sometimes, but the little cartoon version of myself ballooning up and announcing, "that's obese!" is more discouraging than motivating. So I get a glass of Pepsi and a box of Oreoes and vow to start my skinny quest tomorrow.

4) Look pretty

It requires lots of things for a girl to look presentable. And I just don't care enough to wash clothes that aren't sweatpants, take a shower, dry my hair, straighten my hair, wash my face, put on makeup, and wear non-flip-flop shoes. So quite often I look disheveled and severely rumpled, as if I just rolled out of bed. Usually, this is actually the case.

I tell myself that any guy who is put off by my unbecoming appearance is a shallow jerk that I don't want to deal with anyway. Also, guys who expect the frequency of my leg-shaving to be any more than bi-weekly are not worth my time.

Follow this link to discover inappropriateness of ridiculous proportions ----> Just Inappropriate

Friday, July 22, 2011

Kick me while I'm down.

I'm a fairly modest person. By that I mean that I don't like people to know private things about me or see me naked. However, accidents happen, and with my horrible luck/karma/ju-ju they tend to occur in very public places.

One summer I went to the beach with the guy I was dating and his family. This boy was incredibly fair-skinned and didn't like to be around people or spend time with me, so we only went to the ocean a couple of times. Watching Spongebob and eating chips seemed to me like something we could do back home, so I occasionally went with his sister and her friend to try and enjoy my vacation.

Us girls splashed around in the pool and chilled in the hot tub like typical hot teenage beach girls. I had my new bikini so I thought I was the sexiest, tannest person alive. Skin cancer hadn't occurred to my young mind yet. Then I started to feel guilty, having fun while my boyfriend sat upstairs by himself. He had exiled himself to the hotel room but somehow I still believed he wanted to break away from his boring cycle of TV, video games, and junk food.

So I went upstairs to present him with my whiniest, clingiest argument that he needed (and secretly wanted) to spend romantic quality time with me on the beach.

He either agreed with me or wanted me to shut up, because he put on his swim trunks and followed me out to the ocean. I skipped and giggled and held his hand, convinced that we were now on the fast track to spending happy-fun-time together.

Even though I'm deathly afraid to be in the water over my head, I trusted the ocean to respect my limits and only splash the waves mildly onto my legs so I wouldn't freak out. The ocean kindly obeyed.

Then we got a little brave and went out further, where we had to jump with the waves to keep our heads above water. I was delighted but kept getting saltwater in my eyes and couldn't see. Unable to see the waves approaching, not knowing when to jump, I started to get scared and told my boyfriend so. He eased my mind by getting behind me and picking me up by the waist when he jumped. It made me feel light and happy and in love, because I was a simple eighteen-year-old girl who read romance novels and expected a lot but often received very little.

After several times of us jumping together so adorably, I felt the bikini string around my back start to loosen. I looked down between waves and, through squinty saltwater-filled eyes, saw the strings floating on either side of me. My boyfriend reached for my narrow, toned waist to help me jump for an oncoming wave, and I screamed for him not to. "THINK OF THE CHILDREN!" I cried, panicking and falling gracefully forward out of his reach, desperate to keep my buoys underwater. The wave crashed right on top of my face, and I lost all sense of direction.

The string that remained around my neck was being pulled out and down, trying to drag my body to the sharks. Wanting to stay alive way more than I wanted to stay clothed, I reluctantly ducked my head down and let my noose get rushed away by the violent ocean that was no longer respecting my boundaries.

My poor boyfriend saw his pathetic, topless girlfriend crying and letting herself get tossed around in the ocean, apparently having given up on life and dignity. He responded by heroically running to get his shirt off the shore to cover her shame.

I had been washed up pretty far on shore as I awaited his return. I sat, cradling my knees tightly against my chest, gasping for air, as merciless waves crashed on me and knocked me over again and again. They were like middle school kids coming across a fat girl crying in the bathroom. Perfect chance to kick someone while she's down.

Finally, he brought me his shirt and guided my pitiful, drunken steps to the safe sand. I reminded him that was my new bathing suit, and he sighed and looked at me for a while, surely contemplating whether I was worth the trouble and embarrassment I so often caused him. I watched from a distance as he wandered around aimlessly, waiting for a brown and blue cloth the size of a ship's mast to catch his eye. It never did.

I stumbled dizzily and blindly back to the hotel, where his sister and her friend were leaning over the balcony, waiting to hear what had happened. I shook my head and asked them to throw down a different bikini top so I could get in the calm, waveless pool that didn't want to marinate me with saltwater and eat my clothes for dinner.

Thursday, July 21, 2011


My first car was a 1996 Nissan Sentra that I got when I turned eighteen. I was absolutely delighted with this purchase because it meant freedom and independence and adulthood.

It would have been a decent car except I have a habit of being poor and not taking care of my stuff. So it went months without oil changes and tire rotations and other things you're supposed to have done to your car. I rode around with screeching brakes for a ridiculously long time because I was too poor and embarrassed to take it to the mechanic. I had my youth pastor fix the brakes (or change them, or whatever you do to brakes when they start sounding like death) and then another friend had to do the same thing a while later, but they kept on squealing at me and keeping me from getting attention from attractive boys that didn't involve some form of jeering.

I ignored it for the most part by turning the radio up really loud and singing along even louder. My friends really enjoyed this and always wanted to go places with me because I sound just like Alanis Morissette and Kesha and Taylor Swift all rolled into one.

I usually tend to date/befriend guys who are mechanically savvy, but my boyfriend at that point in time was only an expert at video games and ignoring me. So my access to free help was limited.

Interestingly, my predicament didn't affect the amount of time I spent driving. I drove to school (back when I was a good college kid), work, friends' houses, my boyfriend's house, church, and around aimlessly when I was bored. I figured it wasn't hurting anything other than my ears and self-esteem.

If I had just saved the money I spent on gas and food, I could've afforded to keep my car running. Too bad I was constantly bored and hungry.

So one afternoon I convinced my brother Thomas to go to a Mexican restaurant twenty miles away from our house to fulfill both my moods of boredom and hunger. He didn't want to go but I said I'd pay for his food and he couldn't resist that offer.

We got in the car to go eat and like always, he made fun of how messy my car was.

Thomas: Do you have any clothes left in your room, or are they all in your backseat?

Amanda: No, there are some in the trunk too. Watch where you put your feet, I have some movies and CDs in the floorboard.

Thomas: What's all this crap around your emergency brake? Straw wrappers, two keychains, a bottle of lotion, a Beach Boys CD, a pack of cards, and a copy of The Notebook? Seriously?

Amanda: What? I need all those things to be close by when I'm driving. I might need them.

Amanda: *Pointedly applies lotion from said bottle at a stoplight*

He shoved all my junk into the pocket on his door and I made a show of searching all over for my Beach Boys CD that he had moved.

I might have stooped to playing solitaire on my lap just to prove my point, but we arrived at the restaurant before it got that childish. Thoughts of nachos swimming in cheese were calling my name.

We stuffed our fat faces and talked about how awesome and funny we are.

Thomas: I'm the funniest one in our family and I draw masterpieces in the time it takes you to devour those nachos.

Amanda: I'm the most attractive and I go to church so I'm better than you.

Thomas: I have the greasiest hair.

Amanda: I have a job.

I got a to-go box to make myself feel thin even though I planned on eating it as soon as we got home. I generously paid for our meals and left a tip, and we left. We had nowhere else to go so we headed home through downtown.

My brakes were doing their usual shriek, as Thomas and I pretended to hear the sound coming from another car and judge them to divert attention from us. Everyone could tell by my sweaty red face and his long oily hair that we were too classy to be the culprit of the noise pollution.

Cruising down Main Street, trying to look cool, I saw a light turn yellow. I was a good citizen and acknowledged that yellow meant "slow down." At least, that was my intention.

My foot hit the brake, which screamed in protest and hit the floor way too fast, finally dying of exhaustion. In a wild panic I turned left at full speed (downtown full speed, which is only 25 MPH) so I could at least die on a small side road or parking lot without causing a six-car pileup on Main Street. I was quite considerate of others even in the face of a disaster.

We zoomed down some side road while Thomas turned to stare at me with enormous UFO eyes.

Thomas: What was that?

Amanda: *Uncharacteristically calmly* My brakes aren't working. At all. The pedal is all the way down against the floor right now.

Thomas: What do we do?

Amanda: *Mind is blank, preparing for death* Uh...

We got to a stop sign that met another busy road. We sailed through, directly between cars approaching in both lanes, and Thomas, realizing I wasn't going to do anything whatsoever, yanked up the emergency brake when we got to the other side, which was mercifully a parking lot. I gaped at him, then the emergency brake for a while as I realized I never would have even thought about using it or cleaning out the stuff that was previously stored around the brake. I wondered who the hell let me have a license, and why I was so incapable of things like saving my life.

I called our mom and told her our adventure. She wasn't very impressed and told me to call AAA to have my car towed. After I obeyed, I called Kacy to get a response and some sympathy for my horrible car. Best friends typically respond exactly the way mothers don't.

It wasn't worth fixing everything that was wrong with the stupid car so I bought a new one that I can't afford and gets low gas mileage. But it's pretty and white like me.

I don't keep things sitting around my emergency brake anymore. But I do sometimes pull it up when I park on a hill and forget to take it down until I've driven all the way back across town wondering what that horrible smell was.