I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Like many other angry Americans in history, our first thought mere steps away from the America West terminal was, “Canada! We’ll go to Canada!” If we couldn’t go to Florida for sweatered walks on the beach and tours of alligator farms, then Cade and I may as well take a train to Vancouver, Toronto, or Quebec. It was aboot time for a vacation,eh?
Him: Wanna hang out tonight?
Me: I dunno. Do you?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Again?
Him: Yeah. Lately all these extra warm and fuzzy feelings for you are bubbling inside me.
Brrr! Though the pipe in the bathroom puffs a serpentine song, this apartment is barely heated. The wooden floors only look warm; the bed only looks snuggly in its disheveled stripes.
This excerpt is supposedly meant to contribute to a book that is an ironic, existential parody of the self-help genre. I, however, think it’s right on:
Each has an individual feel. Some are plush and overstuffed as armchairs, cushioned with extra days. Others are fuzzworn, thread-stretched, paltry days to rest, to work. Neither of these happens over such weakened weekends.
In light of recent conversations, I think back to the difference I’ve noted between what I have experienced and what I have recorded. This blog is a kind of flimsy, volatile little container. There are some things I steer clear away from, because this blog is not that kind of blog or because I am not comfortable at this time with being that kind of blogger.
Sometimes I wish Cade were more Jewish.
His dad is non-practicing; his mom’s a Buddhist. That’s interesting, I guess. Still. I want to know the mysteries of the yarmulke. How does it stay on without clips or bobby pins? (I don’t like when guys wear clips or bobby pins I can see. It’s just wrong, and makes the yarmulke look like something faddy from Wet Seal).
This time last year, I was alone. It was the third consecutive year that I would be away from my family, my kitchen table, the leaves tightly fastened to the branches of oak and mesquite trees. I didn’t really care, because Thanksgiving has always been a mere respite from school for me. It doesn’t mean family or food or thanks. It’s just a break with a large meal I pick at.
She called in tears.
Big city.
We fought and
pangs of fear
struck me.
