I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Last time I blogged about the universe farting in my face, commenter extraordinaire Sherri mentioned that I was begging for more. I mean, she’s read The Secret. I just read some blog posts by people who read it and then made fun of them, you know?
I’m not the informed person here.
Well, guess what? The cosmic force that propels The Secret - a coalition of goddesses or Allah or Bill Cosby or something - is real.
1) Woke up at 7:30 to neighbors having loud, unsexy relations. The bed bouncing; the woman shrieking. The man makes no noise, though I assume he’s partly responsible for the skidding of the mattress into the wall, the bedside table or something else crashing and grinding into the floor.
As oxymoronic as this may sound, the woman’s shriek is a passionless shriek. It’s a metronome, a baby doll’s programmed squawking while its eyes flutter open and shut.
The shrieking is her little way of saying “I’m retarded and very excited about something.” Or maybe “I’m not dead yet.” God, how it sounds like her partner is trying to remedy that.
I was tired after going to bed just a few hours earlier, but not too tired to bring my Bose SoundDock into the bedroom from the living room. They annoyed the folk out of me. I played Ani DiFranco full-blast for almost two hours.
I’ve mentioned a few times that I have trouble sleeping, right?
It’s not that I go days without sleeping and become a shell of a human being.
I go days without sleeping well and become a shell of a human being.
There’s a difference.
So the iPad, huh?
And Obama’s speech, yeah?
Some not-so-breaking news: I’ve been working on some writing, and I think the hardest parts are done until next week when I start some new projects.
I don’t look at the analytics on my blog too often, as I tend to forget I have access to them. And then I forgot how I have access to them. Which password is it? Is it the one that has to have at least one number?
Oh God, now it’s asking me for the name of my school. I went to a lot of them. Uh. How did I answer this fours years ago?
Jesus. What did I even look like four years ago?
Anyway, I looked at the analytics over the long weekend. I was curious about the keywords that were bringing new people here, and oh my God, you people are sick. Please keep visiting.
These are some real searches that brought people to my blog:
It’s the beginning of a new decade, a time to think of where we are and where we want to get. It’s also simply the beginning of a new year. This January, we vow to be more accomplished, less fat, or whatever the case may be.
And I’ve coined it the Year of the Ass. Because so far in 2010, I’ve felt like ass.
Life has been one pain in the ass. Actually, many. Many pains on one pale, grumpy ass. Some would say I’m even acting like an ass.
So yeah.
What will you do this year?
As far back as I can remember, my mom’s eyes have drooped long before the ball dropped in Times Square. Forget live music or noisemakers. She ushers in the new year by pulling out a fresh 3×5 index card and recording 10 resolutions.
“Some should be things you know you can definitely cross out,” she advised me at my initiation. “You probably won’t get to all of them.”
In high school then, I might have sarcastically asked, “Can I put breathing? How about buying a new shirt?”
Happy holidays to you!
Thanks for your readership, support, not being creepy, etc.
Really. I mean it, guys.
I get the whole online portfolio idea, I really do.
But putting most, if not all, of one’s potentially embarrassing social media in one place just seems a little too easy.
Stalkers used to have more of a challenge. It used to take skills.
