Just like the now barren turkey you are stuffed with green bean casserole, Grandma’s homemade mashed potatoes, gravy, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and some more pumpkin pie. Another great holiday filled with great food, and most importantly great people. Flopping on the couch and slowly drifting off into a food-induced coma sounds just peachy right? WRONG! Merely hours after Thanksgiving dinner has come to an end they waddle out into the chilly night air where they wait. For isn’t Thanksgiving the “Christmas Eve” to the Holiday season, the night before the most anticipated part of the year? Impatiently waiting for the doors to open, the clock strikes 4 am and they stampede like a band of wild animals escaping the zoo. Brace yourself it’s here, the Hell-A-Days.
Call me Scrooge; call me the Grinch but I. HATE. CHRISTMAS. Now before you go an egg my house let me explain. I’m sitting in the car and Wendy (my mother) complains to me how many Christmas cards she has to write. This statement was the catalyst to this entire rant I am about to go on. Who is she writing 60 plus Christmas cards to? Does she even know that many people? Wendy admits that she only speaks to seventy percent of these people come Christmas. So if these cards are being sent out of formality, and cordialness why even bother? It’ll just be another generic card with a glittery snowman on the front, wishing these near “strangers” a Happy Holiday. It’ll be displayed on their mantel for a few weeks then will be dumped after New Years. I doubt us (I use the term us loosely. Wendy sings all of our names. I mean they will realize we don’t have matching handwriting…) not sending them a Christmas Card adversely effects their merriment. You might as well save the dollar you “splurged” on the card with.
There is something in the air at this time of the year and that my friend is called phoniness. It’s much like those mass texts you receive Christmas day, the ones you damn well know has been forwarded to 150 other people. It’s bologna. I haven’t talked to you all year and you text me today? Bitch please.
If you aren’t aware there are a few other religions that celebrate during his time but I can understand if this is news to you. I mean Christmas steals the spotlight and the radio stations. Holidays are meant to bring family together to celebrate their blessings, and instead it creates stress, arguments, and debt. Does little Jimmy really need the two hundred-dollar remote-control car when he will end up playing with the wrapping paper instead?
Speaking of wrapping paper. What is the point of adorning a present in shiny paper and a large bow when it’ll be ripped to shreds in a matter of seconds? These are the questions that haunt me. Now that I have left you something to ponder enjoy your Hell-A-Days…. I mean Holidays. Feel free to egg my house.
More than half of these spellbinding (not biased in the least) posts consist of me rambling endlessly about my suckish, loveless teenage existence (aka #whitegirlproblems). If you can’t tell, I’m bearing an open wound of the cardiovascular type; I myself underestimated its “rawness”. I’m so preoccupied with Mr. Wrong that I am passing up dozens, of potential Mr. Rights.
Perhaps I over exaggerated just a tad, but there are a handful of men trying to “Halla, at dis”, and my own personal problems are getting the way of that. I am essentially cock blocking myself.
Why do we do it? Why do we spend hours of our day consumed with thoughts of the one that “got away”? Maybe it’s a good thing he flew the coop, maybe it’s all a part of a higher plan, and all the pain we are feeling is preventing us from seeing the future benefits them leaving pose – maybe all the tears, pain, and cartons of ice cream will have been worth it.
“Alright guys, enjoy your weekend”. Wednesday, and the last class of the day had just come to a close, and twenty minutes early to boot! I headed to the subway, and began the journey back to Buffalo. It had been 3 months since my being home, and I was happier than a clam to spend the next four whole days back at twenty-five Manlon.
As my plane began its final descend, we broke free of the clouds, and my home twinkled in the darkness, like those Christmas village displays. My eyes filled up with tears reducing my sight to familiar blobs. Three. Whole. Months – an eternity in Amanda Time.
My plane landed and I grew antsy as I waited my turn to exit my seat, and the plane. I finally made my way down the escalator, and walked outside the drop-off/pick-up area. The brisk Buffalo air greeted my skin, and seconds later I spotted her, that wonderful woman with the beautiful red hair. My mother.
I excitedly hopped in the car, and we made our way home – my real home. I turned the gold doorknob on the burgundy door decorated with a festive fall wreath, and took a deep inhale. Sugar cookies, and laundry – the Limardi scent. Home Sweet home. I got ready for bed (a pair of cozy hello kitty pj’s and a big sweatshirt), and fell fast asleep on the living room rug, watching TV with you guessed it, my momma.
Oh how things have changed. This time last year I didn’t ever want to go home. What was home, a tired town, with boring people? I was now living in the epicenter of - well everything. NYC, The Big Apple – what grander a place? New people, new surrounds, and a new beginning, I wanted to escape everything I was in Buffalo, and create a new me.
I eventually discovered that the “new” me, is really just like the old me - A Momma’s girl, a beer and peanuts simpleton who wants nothing to do with the Fashion Industry, or LIM (Life Is Miserable) College. She likes hanging out with close friends, running errands early weekend mornings, and watching football games on crisp fall days. She’d rather sit at home Saturday night snuggling on the couch with good company and a movie, than to be playing beer pong with college cuties.
The isolation I find my self in is in my opinion a big contributor to my very blue mood. I live in an apartment instead of dorms full of other college students, and I keep to myself at school because I don’t care to talk to the fashioistas. My only socialization is at work on the weekends, and my time spent at the New York Sports Club is the highlight of my days. You’d think I’d be like some feral unkempt beast, but instead my seclusion has created a little sappy mush ball (for lack of a better term). I feel things will get better after I hear from Hunter College. They will be contacting me sometime this month to let me know if I have been accepted for the Spring 2012 semester (fingers crossed please).
Sunday morning, I roll out of bed, the time is 9:50. I grab my backpack and walk out of the door by 9:53. Where am I headed? To get my daily caffeine fix at Starbucks – a glorified crack house.
While in line I groggily rub the crusties from my sleepy eyes and tell the familiar face behind the counter my order even though they already know what I am going to get. Venti Espresso Frappicuino Light is my beverage of choice. I used to buy the Coffee Frappicuino Light, but with age you graduate from coffee to espresso to cope with life and its exponentially increasing difficulties.
You may think a frappicuino, or any other fancy caffeinated beverage is a total diet faux pas, but by customizing your drink with skim or soy milk you save a load of calories. Also by skipping the whipped cream topping you save around 100-200 calories and a whopping 11 grams of fat!
Starbucks is my daily “guilty pleasure” if you can even call it that (my Venti Frap. Has only 170 calories with no fat)! It’s my sweet treat for the day, and it gives me the surge of energy I need to power through the stressful day of a New Yorker…. I’m a Venti Espresso Frappicuino Light. What are you?
Back in the day when man still communicated through a series of grunts, and gestures the name of the game was “Survival of the Fittest”:
Name: ARRRG
Occupation: Hunter Gatherer
Aspiration: Survive
A normal day consisted of running from predators, hunting for food, and finding refuge. Our trouble began the instant the neanderthalic man realized he could use tools (i.e the wheel) to make his life a little easier. Fast forward a few million years and look what happened; we have a generation full of couch potatoes using modern amenities to be lazy.
Evolution got us to this point; I think it’s time for a revolution… The Revolution of the “Treadmill Tomato!”
Let’s play a game called Word Association. I’ll give you a word, phrase, or name, and it is your job to shout out what immediately comes to your mind. Ready?
Two words: Pamela Anderson (GO)
If you said boobs then Congratulations, you’ve won!
Pamela has quite the rack; God bless her. I mean those ever-so-slow Baywatch running scenes…can you say ouch?
Titties, knockers, “The Girls”, boobies, hooters, melons; the list goes on. Breasts: some women have them, and some will to pay top dollar to get them. For all my fellow ladies in the Itty, Bitty, Titty, Committee It’s time to stop hating our “Petite Pals” for what they aren’t, and love them for what they are!
Cosmo Magazine came out with an article entitled The A-Cup Revolution, and they provided a few reasons why our A’s rock.
1) Our small breasts allow for a greater sense of pleasure because there is not much fat tissue to wade through in order to stimulate the glandular tissue.
2) During “self-inspections” a lump is easier to detect
3) There is less strain to the neck and back
4) Gravity is no match for our “Little Ladies”, unlike their buxom counterparts
I took it upon myself to compile my own list of why I think my non-existent boobs are awesome:
1) I can leave the house braless, without receiving discerning looks from passers-by
2) I don’t have to worry about looking trashy with over exposed cleavage
3) Most importantly my boobs don’t hinder my comfort while working out
With this all said tell me a few reasons you think your small breasts are great!
Kill me now! Fashion school is just one big purgatorial waiting ground; each day I waste here I grow poorer, and more agitated.
You don’t need a school specialized in fashion to get you far in the fashion industry. In fact Fashion Survey, a pointless class, with a 40-minute commute at 7 in the morning proved my point last semester. Fashion Survey if you don’t already know is a lecture class where speakers in the Industry come and talk about their careers, Blahblahblah and the steps they Blahblahblah took to get them where Blahblahblah they are today. Roughly estimated 99.99999999% of the speaker’s journeys didn’t include fashion school, or even a single fashion class. There was a guy who graduated from Harvard… point set match.
Fashion school, more specifically my school just gives dumb biddies who have no other option educationally false promise of amounting to any type of successful – There are some things even Daddy’s Platinum credit card can’t buy.
Is it hypocritical to wear "Boyfriend jeans" when you don’t actually have a boyfriend, or is it just wishful thinking?
It’s summertime and love is in the air (polluting it for us single saps). Everywhere I turn I see people paired off and I tell myself: “Self, don’t worry someday your Prince will come. He just took a wrong turn and is too stubborn to ask for directions" - typical.
It seems as though all my fellow female Manhattanites have discovered the secret to finding love and have failed to share it with me. All I have to say is “Secrets, secrets, are no fun, unless you tell everyone.” (Everyone being me). Every romantic chick-flick says that you’ll meet your “Prince” walking your dog, on the subway or by accidently spilling your morning “Cup O’ Joe” into his lap (OUCH)…. FALSE. It’s a bunch of bullcrap!
Today after my class I decided to take a trip to Barnes and Noble because I honestly had nothing better to do. I headed to my usual section “Self Help” and surveyed my options…. The Art of Seduction, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, Act Like A Lady; Think Like A Man, Make Every Man Want You, The Vixen Manual, What Men Want, Stop Getting Dumped…. and the list goes on. One that immediately caught my eye was Why Men Love Bitches. The book tells you how being a bitch makes you more desirable to the male species. WHY IS THIS LOVE THING SO DAMN HARD? I MEAN IT'S LOVE, NOT A MILITARY PLAN! Why are we so strategic about it? The bookshelves are lined with instructions on how to find the “Perfect man” but I thought love is supposed to find us when we least expect it… If I am making myself up, wearing all the right colors, and scents, acting all nonchalant, and bitchy to get a man to “want me” WHAT THE HELL DO I DO AFTER I’VE GOT HIM HOOKED? The real me isn’t always going to be so perfect. Can we stop playing coy and just be real? Can I go up to someone and say “Hey! I think you’re smokin’, let’s do this thing”?
I’ve tried the Damsel in Distress thing, I’ve tried to pretend to be perfect, I’ve worn red, the right makeup, scents, I was illusive, mysterious and my Prince didn’t come (still asking for directions?)…
“Things always start when they are just about to end”- The Roomie (who I miss dearly).
If you have been keeping up with the O-so-exciting Life and Times of Amanda Limardi then you should know that I am Ziggy’s Tacos newest and best (not biased in the least) cashier girl. Besides making bank, especially in tips Ziggy’s has graced me with my future Hubbie.
I am notorious for sharing the beautiful men of the world (mainly of caramel complexion) with my fellow Facebook compadres so you will be surprised to know that my Ziggy’s crush is just your typical white male. You’d look at this guy and be like “Amanda really? He’s such a goof.” Yes he’s a goof, but he’s everything I have dreamt about. (LOL)
My undying passion for him even took me by surprise. I hated this guy; always passing through with something sarcastic and witty to say, but after a few shifts together my aggravation turned to infatuation. Now my mind is constantly playing a sappy montage of our finest moments together…. All I have to say is FML. I would fall for a Buffalonian a week and a half before I am to depart back to thee Big Apple.
I am now left to question whether it is better to start off liking someone, or not being able to stand them? From my recent experiences it seems that when you start out hating someone it’s better because you over time find quirks you love about them. When you start off loving someone you’ll eventually discover things you hate…
“Like a virgin touched for the very first time”- In 5 months. So it wasn't exactly in the heat of the moment, or out of pleasure or by a man, so I guess it doesn't really count damn it.
Ha had the annual woman doctor check up and my maturity really shined today. The questions of sexual activity and past or present pregnancies came up and I had to swallow my laughter haha! Well at least this meant I didn't have to go to third base with the doctor. No pelvic exams are needed for virgins, just a breast exam and some pushing on my abdomen. It's now been three weeks in Cheektowaga, and my days have consisted of work, working out and the NBA finals, I have done nothing illegal or anything a college student on summer break should be doing. Yesterday I shed a few homesick tears- NYC home sick that is.... I miss the vulgar language at every corner, the independence, the creepers, the frat boys that I hold so dearly, the dirty dorms, Starbucks, midnight fruit runs and knowing everyday I leave the house I never know what will happen and who I'll meet; but most of all I miss the Roomie...
Hopefully things pick up because tonight we rage. But I must be on my way a bottle of O’ Captain my Captain Morgan awaits
College is: passing out in your school's lobby in a puddle of your own drool, shamelessly waking up, wiping the newly formed crust from your cheek and continuing on with your day.
Shameless: that is the word of the year.
I am what I am; this is me, this is all I can give you. If you don’t like it I’m sorry. I spent too many years trying to be something other people would like, or rather what I thought they would like. Two eating disorders later, I have realized that the real Amanda Limardi is pretty damn great. College was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was a ten-month journey of self-discovery- I have no regrets. Yes I fucked up on multiple occasions, but you live and you learn. Each screw-up has made me a stronger, more mature adult. I will never forget my first year here in NYC, and room 532 because only in Room 532 do you blast Christmas music in May, get turned on by watching drake in the "what's my name" music video, recite Hamlet- all while ridding your dorm of the useless things you managed to accumulate throughout the semester…
Tonight is my last night in NYC and the EHS building for awhile. I'm going to go out with a bang! Cheers to freshman year- Peace!
I would get a life the weekend before my final projects are due… It used to be school at the butt crack of dawn; gym for like 5 hours (no really) like 5 hours and then homework into the wee hours of the night- There was a key component missing in my daily routine. Socialization. Without it anyone would go crazy. After preparing my salad on the toilet (a low point in my life thus far) I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of these dorms, and be in a cozy west side apartment. But then something grand happened. I. Made. Friends. Well I always had buds but my rigorous gyming prevented me from seeing them. I have found a balance in my life, and things are looking up! I get home from class, meander down to the lobby, and post up. Essentially I am killing two birds with one stone. Homework, and buddy time, followed by the gym.
My buddies are male, and after a long day swimming in a sea of estrogen I find it relaxing to just chill with the boys- I couldn’t be happier. The Saharan state I am always complaining about “is what it is”, and I’m good. I could hold off another 8 months if I needed to (I don’t want to, but I’m just saying it’s possible). I mean I waited 17 years 11 months and 8 days to even being partaking in the fine art of “swapping spit” so I will happily solider on. I love this feeling I have. Happiness, something a long time coming; but I’m off. The city calls. Tonight, we RAGE.
College is: Leaving the gym at 1:19 am, seeing a clean pair of socks someone must have dropped out of their laundry basket, and seriously considering taking them because you’re running low…… In college. Shit gets real. So real that I did the thing you should never ever do. I shitted where I eat- I mean I ate where I shit.
It’s nearing the end of the semester and final projects are piling up, forcing the roomie and me to be gyming at all hours of the night. These late-night gym sessions then cut into our oh-so-important sleep schedules, calling for mid-day naps. I came home around 6 a few weeks ago, and my poor sleepy roomie was zonked out. I was starving; it was salad time but trying to open a salad bag quietly is an impossible feat. I gathered all the accoutrements needed for the perfect salad, and headed into the bathroom… yes I just said bathroom. I put my large bowl on top of the closed toilet, and prepared my dinner...
- That is probably a great way to get Escherichia coli (E coli), and if you bring this up in public, I will deny it at all costs. I WAS HUNGARY. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I don’t do Fashion, I am Fashion. Fashion school sucks. Don’t go.
Just joshing. I have no right meddling in your life decisions, but I do know Fashion school is not for me. Throughout high school I think it was just assumed I was destine for the Fashion Industry. I let my peers, and elders decide what I was going to be when I quote “grow up”. Nearly 2 semesters, and $30,000 dollars later I realize: “be who you are, not who people want you to be or who you think people want you to be”. Letting outside pressures and assumptions decide what you can and cannot do will only give you headaches, and empty pockets.
Knowing what you don’twant to be is the first step in discovering what you want to be. I don’t regret my time at LIM. It gave me friends (and my now best friend), made me love NYC, and most importantly myself. I found the city, now time to find the school! Nutrition and Exercise Science/ Physical Therapy here I come.
I don’t do Fashion, I am Fashion. I do Fashion- I am not Fashion.
It all started off very innocently, giving up sweets for lent. A few weeks in and the question presents itself: “Have you lost weight”? Followed by “you look great”… When you spend twenty plus hours a week in a leotard and tights someone telling you you look good will definitely go to your head.
Lent came and went and your no-sweets policy continues; the weight seems to just fall off. The following year the now Junior in high school you is on the swim team, still dancing twenty hours a week (around 3-4 hours a night) and wouldn’t dare eat more than 600 calories in a day.
One day you get home from a grueling swim practice, immediately headed to the fridge. You eat, then you eat some more, then suddenly you are manic shoving every morsel of food you can into your mouth. Soon you just collapse right there on the kitchen floor for fear your stomach might burst. Laying there baffled at what just happened the guilt sets in followed by panic- you have a dance performance in a matter of hours, so you struggle to stand, waddle to the bathroom, open the toilet and are surprised at how easily your index and middle finger slide to the back of your throat. After much effort, and heaving all you can do is stare into the once pearly white bowl. You’re exhausted, can’t believe what you have just done, but for some reason can’t wipe the diluted smirk of satisfaction from your face…. and the trouble takes a new form.
A classic case of Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome: you are feeling on top of the world “doing you” until that dark sinking feeling begins to creep back in. Starting at your toes it slithers up into the pit of your stomach then moving up through your chest until its heavy with emptiness. You now realize just how alone you are. You struggle, weighing the pros and cons, but something possesses you hands, and before you can do anything you have already pressed send. You surprisingly feel relieved, only to realize milliseconds later you have just shifted the power from you to them…
"I am an Independent woman! Not by choice but by circumstance"- me
If you haven’t checked the calendar yet it’s April 18th, which means it has been 4 months and 1 day of my Saharan dry spell. My father would be so proud.
Yesterday I swear it was like people knew. Everywhere I looked couples mocked me; sticking their tongues down each others throats, being all touchy feely- BITE ME! No but really bite me I’m into that shit. It’s true what they say about not appreciating something until it’s gone…
I didn’t do it on purpose, lose touch with my b-lo peeps, but shit happens. College has been going, schoolwork is piling up, and I’m trying to decide where to transfer. I’ve been making new buddies, hanging with my NYC Family in Queens, and “I be up in the gym just working on my fitness” for 4 hours a night.
I was anticipating this, losing touch, not being able to talk all day everyday with them, I just didn’t expect for them to shun me. I guess I won’t be able to see the damage done until May 20th when I drop trou in Buffalo for about a month, to work before heading back to the city.
-True friendship stands the test of time, and isn’t phased by distance because you carry their spirit in your heart. That's what is most important- XoXo Limardi<3
Well today it is not “a beautiful day in the neighborhood”. New York City is hidden under a massive gloomy, gray rain cloud- yuck. Monday I whipped out the daisy dukes, and didn’t give a flying fig about the disapproving glances. I don’t know what the problem was. It was about 74 out! Y’all are the crazy ones, wearing jeans and what not. Let the gams breath geesh. I will say that there were a few who took a liking to my exposed neon legs. I got looks of admiration, and lip licking from about four middle aged black fellas. I find I receive more attention from that demographic than any other. For example on Facebook I have 68 pending friend requests, and about 25 of those are from middle-aged black men whom I have never met nor have mutual friends with. I swear its like they just know I’m “down”. Lol
I have a secret to tell, but you have to somely swear not to tell a sole…If you are still reading then I assume you vow to keep my secret. Okay here it is. It’s been three months. I repeat: THREE WHOLE MONTHS since this girl has gotten a little tender love and care- Okay. Maybe that’s not really a secret... but at this point I would be thrilled if an old man “copped a feel” on the subway. I am in the Sahara Desert and I need an oasis to quench my thirst!
This weekend did not help at all. It all started with Friday night. The roommate and I went to see The Lincoln Lawyer starring the sexy Matthew Mcconaughey. (The movie was incredible. Go see it now- well after you read the rest of this post). Anyways we got seated early, and soon after we were situated the couples came crawling in. We had forgotten that it was 8 on a Friday night- date night. Before we knew it they had us surrounded. Ick. Two seats were open to my left. A very pregnant woman waddled up the stairs and asked if the seats were taken. They weren’t, only by my imaginary bf, but he didn’t mind. Later her hubbie came, and all the couples were stinking up the joint with their lovey-dovey shit. I had been doing so well, and they all had to ruin it! I still don’t want a boyfriend. I guess what I want is a man friend. One you aren’t dating but can just use for nights like this. A fill in bf I suppose, for when I’m lonely. (Fill in, not “fill in the gap in my vagina” (that's a f-buddy)). Anyways the movie starts and I can’t concentrate because I am thinking about how I’m lonely, and getting really down in the dumps over it. I tell myself to snap out of it, and I finally get into the movie. Matthew Mcconaughey helped because he was looking good, more than good that fox is F.OI.N.E fine.
Anways during the movie I as per usual shoved like three sticks of gum in my mouth and was blowing some bubbles. A few were unintentionally loud, but nothing to get your panties in a wad over. I let another loud pop slip and out of the corner of my left eye I see the pregnant woman give herself whiplash because she felt it necessary to burn a hole in the side of my face for snapping my gum. Bitch. More time goes by, the movie is getting intense. Ecept for a few gasps, my roomie and I were quiet the entire time. Towards the mid end of the movie we can no longer hold in out enthusiam for Matthew Mcconaughey. We say (and this is literally what we said): “he is so sexy”. Miss Preggers gives herself whiplash for the second time then leans into baby daddy and points at us. This is where I get PISSED. Listen Lady pregnant or not I'll throw down with chu. If you have a problem all you need to do is ask me to quiet down. "The stank eye", and snye comments are unnecessary. Excuse me, the sexual frustrated girl for not being able to hold in her emotions about the sexy Matthew Mcconaughey. I’m sorry you’re married, and have a stomach the size of a watermelon! Golly...beside this, I had a great night.
Saturday rolls around, and we for some reason after a day perusing the city decide to rent and watch a sappy romantic comedy (we are clearly masochists). We hit the gym, and after three hours, we find out selves sitting in out room sporting messy buns, and sweats- cute. It’s 12:19. We should be at our favorite college bar in Queens NY, with our St. John’s frat boys, but no their Frat had to have “Male bonding”. The rest of the night was spent discussing our sad state. My life is stagnant.
XoXO- Limardi aka. Explicit Virgin (my newly created nickame for myself).
Tuesdays can go suck a fat one. You know it’s gonna be a rough day when you wake up and can’t wait for the day to be over. The only thing that is keeping me going is the promise of partying, and getting out of this metaphorical drought- because mark my words this weekend ends the three month no action nonsense.
“Make sure you send Grandma’s birthday card”,“ Me and you should go to the mall Tuesday”, “I like a little sugar in my tea”, “Sally’s yearbook pic is beautiful”.
So you’re texting a special cutie. The convo is flowing, your witty banter is on point. Things are running smoothly then - BAM! Four little words pop up on your screen. “Send me a pic”.
“To sext, or not to sext, that is the question”…. of the 21st century. Hamlet sure didn’t have to worry about junk like this. Oh Shakespearian times, the good old days where chivalry wasn’t dead, and the latest and greatest technology was the Printing Press. Now a days we have to worry about the sexual pressures picture messaging present. I suppose it is just a picture, but IDK man. Have you ever been going through your friend’s phones (this is especially true of my man friends), and while innocently checking out their photos you come across a naked girl…. boobs… oh there’s an ass…. wow are those implants? Before I know it I have viewed more tits and ass than I ever needed to see. Call me a prude, but I couldn’t bare (ha bare. get it naked…bare?) being “that naked girl on his phone”.
While ranting about our cough cough 2 cough month cough dry spell, my Roomie and I came to the conclusion that we don’t get any man action because we won’t “put out” for just anyone. I’d rather be stranded in the Sahara Desert (our nick-name for our sexual dry-spell) than feel badly about myself for hooking up with nasty scummy boys.
Summer of 2010 my two best friends from Buffalo (Buffalo Bestie, and Little Buddy) I made a bet. The bet was who can “get it in first”. Little Buddy (who is 2-years younger) had an unfair advantage. She had a steady boyfriend, so Buffalo Bestie and yours truly were forced to whore our selves around just too get a little action. I was determined to win this thing! I did not under any circumstances want to be a virgin in the sexual or kissing sense when my first day of college came around (PAH! …Still the Virgin Mary more than a year later). One night after a little too much “apple cider” at a grad party I had found the man who was going to pop this cherry. It was a boy who graduated, I thought was cute all throughout high school…. and he was a man-whore. I had this thing in the bag. Once I told my competitors my man of choice, blank stares were accompanied by chirping crickets. Little Buddy said: “you want to win the bet, not get an STD”. Because of this true statement we refer to him as STD Boy. Honestly I now (after seeing the light) would not touch that kid with a 9379273682736487 ' pole.
Anyways summer (stupid, horny) Amanda started texting STD boy, and all we did was talk about sex. I of course received the “Send me a pic” text, and as you probably have guessed didn’t send a pic. (Although horny, still had some personal boundaries). This went on for like two weeks; us saying how badly we wanted each other’s reproductive parts. A few times he even suggested I sneak in his house. He said his mom worked nights, and his dad and sister were sleeping…I’m sorry but FUCK NO. I am no ones booty call (unless your name is Shemar Moore). We continued to text sexual things, I repeatedly declined his suggestions to hop the bushes, and climb through his window, and then came August 14th; the bet deadline. Coincidently the night of the deadline we “hooked up”. When I say hooked up I mean made-out, not to be confused with the “had sex, Hooked up”. We made-out felt up and then went back to the party. I being a slut (and hopped up on "apple cider") text him and said I had a special surprise in store (BJ). He never got his “surprise” because I ignored him when he came to find me. Eventually STD Boy grew tired of my “cock teasing”, and I realized how stupid I was for acting foolish just to win a bet.
When I think sext I immediately think naked girl. But men do in fact sext. I have actually had the privilege? of receiving a rare MALE SEXT. It again was the last month before I was off to the Big Apple. Little Buddy has a big brother, and him and I occasionally texted (nothing raunchy like the texts between STD Boy and me). One time texted: “Send me a pic” text. I obviously shared it with Buffalo Bestie, and Little Buddy (I will never understand why guys think they can have a secret between them and a girl; its just fact that the girl will tell at minimum their closest bff). It was as you can imagine awkward for Little Buddy whose brother it was, but Buffalo Bestie and I were like lets see how far we can push this guy. Our mission:
-Get “Big Bro” to send a pic.
Almost everyday I (with Buffalo Bestie coaching me) tried to get Big Bro to send a pic. I tried sending googled tits and ass, but he was too smart for that. We even sent a pic of my girl’s cleavage. But he insisted of a pic of me. Really? My girl has like DD’s, I have (–A’s)… Anyways one day while in borders with Buffalo Bestie and Little Buddy, I finally told Big Bro that if he sent a picture I would send one after.
Now let’s pause for a moment. What is about to happen was totally unexpected, and I still feel a little guilty to this day
While in the travel section of the store I felt my phone vibrate. A glance, and a shriek later and I sent my phone half way across the isle. On my screen was a pic of what we now refer to as “Lil’ D. (Yes, I am an ass. The poor kid sends me a pic to which I did not reciprocate, and we made fun of it). I after collecting myself apologized, and erased the image from my phone. Unfortunately the image cannot be as easily erased from my memory.
Well that was riveting eh? From the above stories here are the conclusions that can be made about yours truly:
1)I am an asshole.
2)I am no one’s booty call
3)And I am still a virgin.
I at this point in my life will not demean myself just to get a little “booty” y’all are just missing out on this booty- Your loss. I suppose if I really like you I’d send a picture, but that takes some trust. If you receive one you have it in the bag or “my vag” I suppose. But really why a picture? Just come and see this work of art in person.
If you know anything about me you know I have a little thing for men of “color”, also for those a little taller than average. A while ago, when I was still a newb in college, and the Big Apple I made plans to meet up with a guy… yes a guy of “color”. I really had no expectations going in partly because after viewing his facebook I wasn’t too impressed with his pictures (welcome to 21st century profiling). We arranged a casual meeting where I was accompanied by some of my friends. While my buds and I awaited his arrival in a central location down town my palms grew sweaty. I was nervous because I can get pretty shy around new people. After a pint of palm sweat later I saw him crossing the street. Great now my belly button was sweating- that’s how you know it’s serious. Pictures did not do this sex God justice. I don’t know if it was the sweater, his height, or the skin color but I was for sure in love… right?
L.O.V.E. A four-letter word with titanic meaning. They say it takes 30 seconds to fall in love (who “they” are I don’t know), but really? Only 30 seconds? If love is: “a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person”-www.dictionary.com, how can you possibly fall in love with a total stranger after a mere 30 seconds?This being said is love at first sight possible, or can we write it off as an impossibility?
I swore I was in love with Sweater Boy- but now looking back I think the more appropriate explanation of my emotions was lust (“uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite”-also from www.dictionary.com). I was in “lust at first sight”. Perhaps it takes 30 seconds to be physically/sexually attracted to a person- not to love a person.
Having ruled out the possibility of Love at first sight, what is it considered if you meet a person, didn’t think twice about them, then meet them again and start falling? Does the fact that you can’t get them out of my mind mean you’re in love? I mean they failed the lust at first sight thing…. but grew on you like moss does a rock.
Love is messy, so is lust when you confuse it with love. The line between lust and love get blurred when the burning sexual properties of lust get mistaken for the warm happy feeling of love. What are you in?
Tip: Stop giving a fuck about people who don’t give a fuck about you. Try it you wont be disappointed.
There is a fine line between love and hate. To hate someone is a rigorous-taxing task. It takes effort. The way to hurt someone the most is to simply not care.
Why do we always fall for the asshole? The one who doesn’t even know we exist, the one that makes us feel like shit? The answer is: BECAUSE THEY DON’T CARE. Them not wanting us makes us want them even more. I wonder: Is it just human nature to want what we can’t have? Why can’t we appreciate what we have and not dwell on what we don’t? Don’t let anyone bring you down. Don’t put your life on hold for someone that may never come around. Why give them the power? Why not just not care?
“Maybe some women aren't meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free til they find someone just as wild to run with them.”- Carrie Bradshaw.
Today spring is in the air my amigos. It’s a little chilly, but the sun is shining, and it’s one of those days where you walk around with a goofy smile. I am not sure if it’s the weather (making my seasonal winter depression pass), my new found confidence, or NYC- but each day gets better and better. I think all three are responsible for the newly created “Amanda 2.0”, and I love it. Spring break is now 2 and –a- half days away, and fun is sure to ensue, especially due to the fact I am staying stationed in the city with my roomy.
A paramount event also occurred on this wondrous day- my roomy and myself stayed awake for our entire fashion survey class. This is a first. The speaker was incredible, informative (a Drew Barrymore look-a-like), and opened my eyes to all the possibilities the future holds. After the class my roomy myself, and few other gals we were chatting with stayed behind to talk to the presenter. She gave some advice I shall soon not forget. She basically said don’t get hung up about your major, just use college to learn to socialize, find your likes, interests, and network.
When I think about my future all I see is NYC. The City has spoiled me, being anywhere but I’d simply go stir crazy. I see myself single, successful, and enjoying the company of the city and the people I care about, just like my idol, Carrie Bradshaw (yes a fictional character). As for a family I’m not quite sure. I might want kids down the line, but I really like my newly found independence. I don’t need a man, or kids to fulfill me, but that’s just me. Kids and a husband are a luxury, not a necessity for me. If I have them I have them- if I don’t oh well. Let’s see what the cards deal me.
I swear to God I am romantically bi-polar (I am in no way mocking anyone who is bi-polar, I am being completely serious). One day I want to be courted, another just banged… Mike Posner definitely wrote “Ambiguous” about me because I can’t make up my damn mind. Today though I am feeling happy, content. My roommate really put things into perspective for me last night. I have so much good in my life; I am finally happy with myself, I love NY,spring break is three days away, and I have a whole new group of friends (my NYC family). why complicate a good thing?
Mid-term week is approaching. I’m stressed, over exerting my body at the gym and running on no sleep. I wake up this morning and as per usual make my daily pre-subway Starbucks stop. I wait in a 10-minute line, pay then come to find that there is no light Frap mix to make my Venti Coffee frap LIGHT. They ask me if I want the regular, but I decline. My conscience can’t deal with the extra 300 calories added on in the regular frap as compared to the light. Now I am angry. All I wanted to feel was the cold slushy caffeinated frap climbing up the straw, hitting the warm interior of my mouth.
Upset, and not caffeinated I head down the steps to the subway. Its almost 8 (don’t ask me why I left so early for a 9:35 class) and there are masses of people waiting for the local downtown 6. I manage to squeeze on the already packed train, and still coffee less I grew more and more angry as I was forced to play twister just to find something to brace myself while the train was in motion. I listened to two women get into an altercation because one had pushed the other, rolling my eyes at the stupidity. Obviously people are going to be pushed; we were packed into the car like cattle waiting for the slaughter. I myself was straddling the man in front of me…. he owes me 20 bucks!
Heading up to the main part of Grand Central Station I saw a couple par-taking in some PDA. Great. I don’t know your feeling on Public Displays of Affection, but I don’t even have the option to display my affection in public because I ain’t got no man. The most public lip action I get is sucking my frap up through my straw as I walk the streets.
I exit Grand Central, now near my school building; I get my Starbucks (orgasmic), and start to feel stupid for being upset about such meaningless things. I’m young, healthy, and living in the greatest city in the world. I am in college, I have great friends (they are basically my New York City Family), and I am content with myself- something a long time coming. That’s when I turned that old frown upside down!
“So trust me when I say if a guy is treating you like he doesn't give a shit, he genuinely doesn't give a shit. No exceptions”- Alex, He’s Just Not that into You.
Short, sweet and to the point. With this fact known, why do we continue to lie to ourselves, search for deeper meaning in everything our man of the moment says, and does when we know in our heart of hearts the God-awful truth? Why do we continue to make excuses for their asshole actions? Is feeling bad about ourselves worth holding on to that little sliver of hope not moving on from him gives us?
My bff Google tells me a Fuck Buddy is: “A sex partner with whom one occasionally has sex with without special attachment”.
Is adding sex into a friendship just messy, or a way to “get you off” without the commitment of a legit boyfriend/ girlfriend? Is it true that you can have detached sex, or will one of the fuck buddies inevitable end up falling? Is there such a thing as “no strings attached”?
I recently have stumbled upon 2 truths: 1)The reason my school has such a high job placement after graduation, and 2) There is more to life than sex (weird coming from me right?). You may not see how these two truths connect, but trust me they do.
Alrighty, truth 1: The reason my school has such a high job placement rate after graduation is because you don’t need a degree to pursue a career in the fashion Industry. This is not just something I pulled out of (pardon my French) ass, but I am reminded of it every week in my nap class… I mean Fashion Survey. This is the class where I travel to East Juhunga, to listen to people talk about how they currently work in fashion, but went to school to be a lawyer… The class is held on a Tuesday at 8 am, so we leave the dorms at 7 to make it there in time (I have explained this before). Due to the fact I am groggy and annoyed these glorious mornings, I have little tolerance for stupidity, and as a result am a sarcastic bitch- well more so than usual. People here (and by people I mean girls) annoy the hell out of me; honestly it’s time to make like a baby and head out this bitch.
Truth 2): So fashion school, girls- a lot of girls. I am basically living every straight man’s dream; hundreds of horny, testosterone deprived ladies. Being surrounded by this much estrogen 24/7 has the power to turn even a nun into a nympho. When a straight man walks into a room, it’s a free-for-all. We are animals, sexual predators.
I see myself as a mental nympho because my sexual fantasies and constant sexual thoughts are just that, thoughts. I don’t put them into action. Many of the conversations had by my roomie and me are how we need men- more frankly penis. The other night we were saying how enough is enough it’s time to get laid; we ranted how it seems sex just comesso easily (pun intended) for everyone but us. Its like: Boy meets girl. Boy, friend requests girl. Girl accepts. She creeps on his photos, he on hers, and BAM they have sex. I’d like to revise these statements because sex is emotional, it’s messy, and if it’s not with someone you can trust things can get ugly. I am not saying to wait for marriage, or to be in love. My advice would be to wait for the trust thing; someone that you like and who likes you back. Someone who you feel wouldn’t jeopardize your safety.
This mental nympho is going to keep fantasizing for now. I am content, doing my thing, enjoying male companionship. Sex will happen for me when it happens. There’s more to life than sex. You can quote me.
As I make my way to the F subway station leaving Queens NY I take a look at my surrounds and think about the great night I had; all beginning with a jam session to I Just had Sex- Lonely Island. I think about the person I have evolved into, and can’t imagine my life anywhere but in New York City.
Moving here was the best thing I could have ever done, it has forced me to become independent, mature (on a good day), and most importantly chipped away the wall I put up between people and myself. My mother ordered my food in restaurants up until last year- Houston we have progress.
Long gone are the days of shy awkward Amanda- well I’ll always be awkward/”out there” but that’s just part of my charm. Staying in Buffalo would have only meant staying in my pre-NY state. I don’t look down on my friends who chose to stay in Buffalo, in their parents homes; I just wish they got to expirence what I do every day.
If love is a feeling, why do we feel the need to label it? Does calling someone our husband or boyfriend change how we feel about them, or is it just for a sense of security?
…While Lauren is away, the roomies play- in a pigsty.The past 24 hours have been a whirlwind of men, dancing, beverages, and soaking up the beautiful spring-like day in NYC. As a result our room is in shambles, and my lazy ass is not going to clean up until after I gym. Yes gym is now a verb.
Anyways. God only knows why my roomie, her cousin and I got up at ten o’clock this morning, when we didn’t hit the sack until four last night. I’m not sure how we are even functioning. We got “chocolate wasted” (Grownups)… well maybe it was more like dark “chocolate wasted”, but had a fantabulous night, followed by a grand day.
To start off it was 60 degrees here in the big apple, so naturally I felt a stroll through Central Park was a necessity. We hit the city streets, made a pit stop at my crack… I mean coffee house, and then started to the park. I could have walked through that park all day today, but soon after we got to there, Cousin had to leave. Once we sent Cousin on her merry way, my roomie and I hopped on the train to our favorite spot- Soho. If you have never visited Soho I highly advise you to. Its so chill, very urban, and full of unique people. The streets are lined with jewelry stands, scarves, and bongs, and I am going to live there as soon as I am no longer a broke college student.
Today made me realize how much I fucking LOVE NY; So much to do, so much to see, and so many people to meet. “You’re never alone in New York, it’s the perfect place to be single…” (Carrie Bradshaw), I’m living it up, enjoying life, and in good great company.
Being in “like” is taxing. Everything you do, and every plan you make revolves around them. For instance “(insert name here) would so wanna bang me if he saw me in this skirt, I wish (insert name here) was coming with us, I’m going to go out, and drunk text (insert name here), Life would be so much better if (insert name here) was my man”. It’s sick, and life is just a lot easier without having to figure out this love/like business.
Do I wait a long time to text him back, is it okay to text him first, should I ask him if he wants to hang; Am I being annoying, clingy? Do you tell them all you’re secrets or do you remain aloof, mysterious? There are so many things to consider.
Have you ever noticed how simple it is to flirt with someone you have no interest in? You find it easy to be yourself because you really don’t give a flying fig what they think of you - if being yourself with the non-love interest gets him to fall for you wouldn’t it make sense to just be your self with the love interest? I guess its one of those “It’s easier said than done” things.
Maybe all our second-guessing, and premeditation are what mess things up. I am so tired of playing The Love Game…. I think it’s time this girl take a time-out.
