I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Re-entering New York, rain laps the asphalt, pooling in the parking lot. The suitcases at the baggage claim carousel - the one marked for an airline my fellow Flight 1334 passengers and I didn’t fly in on (our carousel is broken and that burly airport worker is tired of hoisting each piece of luggage in the air and yelling, “Whose is this?”) - are wet. Some drenched.
Perhaps
I should
be maybe
tentative.
But when does wearing
my heart on my sleeve,
open and oozing each
zipping infatuated thought,
a self-inflicted wound
to some extent,
get realized
as merely who I am,
how I love,
and what I will do
as long as you let me?
What my dad’s living room sound system must have been thinking when it refused to play my John Legend cd:
One cheap NYC restaurant at which I enjoy dining is Empanada Mama. My own Mama is famous for quesadillas, a similar pocket-like food, albeit not deep fried. I absolutely adore her quesadillas.
*Today my dad and I went to Old San Patricio and bought steer horns for my friend Nick. That was easy enough, but then we had to figure out how and where to pack and ship them. Oh.dear.God. Nick, my dad and I want those hours of our lives back! In the end, the steer horns were $50. Shipping them to an office building on Park Avenue? $96!
On hearing that my friend Nick, whom I’m buying steer horns for, foolishly asked me to bubblewrap them and take them on the plane home as a piece of carry-on/carrion luggage.
In a series of unforeseeable events, I’ve finished both books that I packed as in-flight reading. My first book was Frank McCourt’s Teacher Man. My second, the one that I finished this morning, is Tamara Draut’s Strapped: Why America’s 20- and 30- Something Can’t Get Ahead.
I can resist everything, except temptation…and a good deal.
I printed the contents of my first blog, a year long stint on Open Diary during my junior year of high school. I look back at what I wrote, at how I wrote, and I roll my eyes…a lot. I thought the silliest things were so devastating. This is how teenagers think, though.
I took this interview from a website and added a few questions of my own. This is a modern version of man’s search for meaning.
