humor

Good Thing About The Exercise

I just realized that for the past two weeks, I haven’t technically been eating a dinner but rather a mishmosh of frozen yogurt covered in chocolate sauce and sprinkles, graham crackers dipped and swirled in Nutella, cloud-like wisps of marshmallows and some delicious frozen chicken nuggets made gourmet by a secret sprinkling of spices.

. . . how wonderful!

 

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“Haiku!” A Haiku*

My nipples are dry

Fine oil drops into space

Moist breasts are shiny

This haiku was submitted by me, to me and for me – to the contest I created just now. There were over 0 entries. Out of those, I won the award for Best Haiku 2014. Congratulations, Amanda!

Please, join me in celebrating myself by submitting your haiku about me to amandameetshaiku@gmail.com*. I will be reading the entries over the next few weeks. A winner will be determined** by the end of June.

Good luck!

 

*Debatable.

**This is not my email.

***Nope. No there will not be a winner determined. Ever.

 

 

 

Oddly Specific

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Don’t I look like a teen from the Midwest who wishes she was from Iceland? And think about everything that has to go into that – I’m not even “exotic” enough to think that I look like what I would imagine some hip chick from Iceland looks like. I’m so unexotic that I have to reduce my look to the ridiculous point of Midwest teen trying to look like she’s from Iceland.

Explanation: my face and lips were really swollen last night and I thought it looked interesting, so I took a picture and now here we are.

amanda meets depression

Someecards I Hate Mondays Through Sundays

Accurate.

Funny thing happened in October – I was diagnosed with severe depression. So severe that I was bumped to the top of a 80 person waiting list to see a therapist and a psychiatrist. So severe, my doctor almost started crying when I handed her the list of thoughts that had been on constant rotation in my head for the past two weeks. So severe, that I really, truly, honest-to-god thought I was going to crumble into nothing and die. The scariest part was that I didn’t care. In fact, I was looking forward to that moment of oblivion. 

What I have learned since then is that for the majority of my life, I’ve probably never really been sad, but depressed. Apparently, my brain looks at sad and says, “Fuck this! Let’s go the extra mile!”

Another thing I have learned is to not drink alcohol like a sorority girl when you’re on your first month of Zoloft. Present Amanda is trying to reach through a hole in spacetime to past Amanda to give her the following message:

  • DO NOT under any circumstances drink that whole margarita. You will drink another, then one more, then two glasses of champagne (three?) swiftly and with an ease that would embarrass Ernest Hemingway. 
  • DO NOT wear what you like to call your “Classy Dress.” It will be neither classy nor dressy by the time the night is through.
  • For god’s sake, DO NOT eat the green chile enchiladas and a strawberry cream cake in rapid succession only moments after you’ve consumed alcohol noted above. 
  • Move your hand away from your mouth when you begin to vomit so as to prevent any barftastic essence from spilling onto your “Classy Dress.”
  • Listen to your boyfriend when he says, “Stop drinking. Now.”
  • Listen to your doctor when she says, “Don’t drink alcohol with this medication.”
  • Listen to your future self who will have to write about this in blog form. Idiot. 

For the record, it’s funny now, but I really did black out for a moment and then puked into an adjacent pitcher that was, thankfully, free of any and all beverage. Jeff acted with speed and precision to ensure that most of my vomit was projected into something rather than onto my person. I did fill that pitcher with vomit, by the way. And we’re talking to the brim, people. Jeff was proud of me in a weird way – somehow all five feet of me puked up a pitcher full of puke. 

Now, I tell this story not to warn against the dangers of drinking with medications and the whole thing, you guys know that. I tell this story to illustrate what I like to call “My Darkest Hour.” In hindsight, it’s pretty hilarious, but when you’re there and puking green enchilada with strawberry cream on yourself, it all becomes very dark very quickly. The point is though, that I’m here now writing about it. Things got better. I no longer puke into pitchers. Believe it or not, that’s a good thing. I’m making sure I don’t puke into pitchers just like I’m making sure I don’t get caught up in the negative thoughts my chemically imbalanced brain spits outs. 

So, the long and short of it is this – I know I’ve been gone for a while, and I know there are some of you out there who genuinely like this blog; you leave great comments and you keep coming back here even when I’m not posting. I want to thank you for being such a constant while I was, and am, going through such a difficult time. There might be more posts from here on out about my depression, but I promise I will try to put a good spin on it. The posts might not be as scheduled as they were before, but I’ll try. I just want to say thanks, guys. There’s more to come, it will just take time.

Also, tell your friends that have depression or anxiety to COME ON OVER. Let’s talk this shit out. Let’s help each other and try to make sure no one else pukes on themselves.

Autumn: The Season of Unassigned Reading!

Autumn has finally hit Northern California, and I couldn’t be happier. However; when it becomes fall around here, yours truly loses any and all desire to do schoolwork. All I want to do is curl up with my British edition of Harry Potter, drink chai and snuggle with Jeff (the boyfriend), Hermione(the cat) and Zelda(the dog). The last thing I want to do is do assigned reading. Anyone who has ever majored in Literature knows what I’m talking about – it’s a problem that is unique to us. Anyone who has never been a Lit major doesn’t understand how you could take courses where all you do is read novels and somehow find time to procrastinate due to your own reading.

I didn’t used to be like this. I remember in junior high I used to kill my school reading before I did anything else. The first time I ever picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, I couldn’t get through my schoolwork fast enough. Study hall with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger? Yes, please! While everyone else was out at recess or lunch, I stayed behind to do my reading so that by the time school was over I had my book pulled out of my backpack and was there with Harry in Potions before I even reached my grandmother’s old Chrysler. I would devour books, and I would always finish my homework first.

But now? Now I have this weird problem where I’ll really jam on an assigned reading for school, but then I’ll get bored with the next book and do my own reading for pleasure. I also have, and always have had, an issue with assigned reading. I just think it’s shit. I always wanted to be a part of the class where a teacher just got the students stoked as hell on something they wanted to read.

Why is this so important? Because not enough people are exited about reading and I think it’s because “literature” is shoved down our throats before we are even cognitively aware enough to know just what the hell it is we are doing in a classroom full of other eight-year-olds!  Because teachers teach to tests and because some of them became teachers just to get weekends and holidays off. Because you are told that if you don’t read (insert novel here) then you will be punished. Who wants to read anything under those conditions?

I’m also just a hippie about reading. Read what you want as long as you are reading! Read the hell out of that Twilight or 50 Shades of Grey, as long as you’re reading.

When you aren’t reading, just do what I do and look at photos of autumn-ish things on Shutterstock. Like this:

Shutterstock Autumn

Relaxing beauty!

Shutterstock Autumn

Peaceful. Majestic.

Shutterstock Autumn Books

Look at how happy she is! I bet she’s reading something whimsical as fuck!

Shutterstock Autumn Books

Poor assigned reading . . . it got left behind.

Now, excuse me while I go to the used bookstore and buy books that won’t further my education.

Crazyface Rush Limbaugh

Feminists – We Love to Shrink Dicks!

Today, The Huffington Post has an article about Rush Limbaugh and another one of his brilliant world theories.

According to the article, Limbaugh discussed a study done in Italy about the shrinking of the male genitalia over the last 50 years. The study attributes this shrink in size to pollution.

But Limbaugh sure doesn’t!

His thoughts (as quoted from the article):

Limbaugh said that he did not believe that air pollution and global warming could have such an impact. “I don’t buy this. I think it’s feminism. I think if it’s tied to the last fifty years, the average size of a member is ten percent smaller…it has to be the feminazis,” Limbaugh said.

Never have I been accused of shrinking the size of the male penis due to my feminist beliefs! How flattering! Truly, the idea that all feminists, excuse me, feminazis, possess such magical powers as to shrink penises around the world is making me feel all warm and fuzzy.

The idea that we possess such powers, but the only thing we do with them is shrink dicks is even more insulting. But, logically, who really wants equality when we could just shrink dicks?

Limbaugh is obviously ignoring the fact that there are male feminists in the world and they probably aren’t shrinking their own dicks.

I’m not making any threats, nor am I endorsing the death of Rush Limbaugh, but how the fuck, and I mean just how the fuck has this asshole not been killed or seriously injured yet? Tell me someone at least throws trash at him every morning before he leaves for “work.”

That must be why he’s in such a miserable mood. Maybe, since the age of nine, Limbaugh has been the victim of consistent trashing. A mysterious stranger has been throwing trash at Rush Limbaugh every morning for the past 52 years. Nailed it. Mystery solved.

Read the full article here – and give it up to the creative people at The Huffington Post for including a hilarious poll at the end of the article.

Fuck Limbaugh. Have a great weekend!

Monday Pubes

I don’t have a whole lot of time to write a post this week, but I figure something is better than nothing. So, I wrote you guys a haiku. I’m not even sure if it’s a legit haiku, but here it is:

A True Story

Trimming my pubes now

A breeze catches a loose one

In my eye it goes

I have very little time for the awesome things in life right now, so that’s why this post is so short. No matter what I do, time escapes me lately. For example, this morning I woke up totally on time and ready to go. I put on a new dress I bought last weekend, walked all the way down to my car in my crazy stripper heels, looked down and realized my dress was crazy-see-through. Like vulva-see-through. Awesome, but not work appropriate. Will I wear it to the casino on Thursday nights for karaoke? Yes. Will I wear it to my new grown-up job? Maybe not so much. So, I run back upstairs (really, it was more of a trot hobble due to my crazy shoes. I trobbled.) and tried to find a different outfit. I was taking clothes on and off so fast that I got sweaty. Then I almost started crying because I was bloated, on my period and sweaty – all by 8:30 AM.

It’s only Monday.

In other news, I started a “book club” with my mom. We are reading Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, and because of my busy school schedule and her busy work schedule we are trying to read it at a steady but easy pace. If you would like to join us in our reading adventure we plan to have one part read a week. There are four parts and the epilogue so that’s five weeks.

If you haven’t heard of the book here is a warning: it’s based off of real life events and it’s about a serial killer. If you are even kind of squeamish or get scared easily this may not be the book for you. Let me know in the comments if you’ve read the book before (no spoilers! You will be shunned!).

I love all of you.

Happy Monday!