Dedicated Note-taking.

One of the books I read recently was purchased at the used book sale at the local public library. I love the used book sale…the most I ever paid for a book was $2, and it was a new hardcover book. Once, I got a like-new copy of The Lovely Bones for a dollar. One dollar!! It’s phenomenal. Not to mention that the money you spend goes toward the library. I mark the sale dates on my calendar. (Seriously, I love the used book sale. And I am a huge nerd.)

The book I just finished was one I picked up on a whim, since it had a really good title and cover. Hating Valentine’s Day by Allison Rushby has a pink cover where a woman is stepping on Valentine candy. And since it cost a quarter, I was willing to give it a shot. The reason I mention this book is because of a curious incident that occurred while I read. For the first 115 pages, it was a standard library book—clean pages that have definitely been turned many times. Then, I hit page 116 and that all changed. It’s the end of a chapter, and Random Bitter Library Patron (not me, in case you figured this was one of those, “I have this *big air quotes and wink* friend…”stories) decided to start taking notes. She (I can only assume it’s a woman…) drew boxes around a few things. See Exhibit A:

The blank space when the chapter ended also provided some room for her thoughts. See Exhibit B:

After this, a few [completely random] words are underlined on the next two pages, and then it stops. That’s it! That was the end of the urge to take notes. I tried to make sense of it. There is no pattern at all! A couple of words like ‘theirs’ are underlined, but there isn’t a spelling or grammar issue. A few slang terms are used, but they make sense and aren’t offensive. The author used some words that aren’t necessarily real, such as ‘de-flabbing’…but the note-taker was hit or miss underlining them. There is no way of figuring out what this person was doing!

So, if you happened to be the one taking these notes, please write and let me know what the hell was going on in your head when you read this book. Thank you.

Let's talk for a second...

...about my family. People sometimes wonder why I turned out the way I did, and I can only think to point them in the direction of my family. (They're fantastic, don't get me wrong. But come on, love doesn't mean someone isn't crazy.) I can only assume that some of my...finer? qualities are a direct result of my parents.

Apparently when I get involved in a prank of some kind, I get a little...overzealous. Let me direct your attention to The Spongebob Incident of '06.
(And possibly '07, since I'm not necessarily aware of the the location of Spongebob at the moment.)



Then we have the Great Fannypack War of '03-'06. (Which also, it needs to be pointed out, involved my mother. AND sister.)



The Time I Had Senior Portraits Taken was quite a battle, fought in 2005. ALSO MY MOTHER.



So you see, I have a bit of a track record. And those are just a couple particular favorites of mine. But right now I am dealing once again with my mother, who is turning out to be one of those evil geniuses that seem quite benign; the ones you don't worry about until it's too late. And because of this, I'm going to go ahead and blame her for whatever genetic mess caused all the above incidents to go on for...ok, maybe too long.

It started when my mother had put away all the holiday decorations, sometime in early January. Or rather, she handed them all to me so I could pack them away. I thought I had done a rather nice job, considering the amount of crap to be put away kind of exceeded the amount of space we had. I was triumphant as I finished. Until she noticed It. On our front porch, a wooden snowman, purchased in northern Michigan several summers ago at a craft fair. He'd have to be put away.

I put my foot down. There was absolutely no room left! I was not going to repack everything for a third time! No way.

"Alright, then," my mother said casually, "I can leave him outside a while longer, since it's still snowy. But you will have to deal with him later."

I dismissed her remarks.

On Monday morning, I woke up and noticed something unusual. HIM. Standing at the foot of my bed was my good friend The Porch Snowman. I cursed my mother and we spent a few days placing him in various parts of the house for each other.

But she had to make it personal. Arriving home the other night, I found THIS.

The stupid skanky-ass lawn ornament that has been on our front porch since mid-December, collecting rain, snow, dirt, and I don't even want to know what else. Tucked into my bed. Where I sleep. She even thought to blame my father when I saw it. With a straight face, she allowed me to eye my father suspiciously before deciding he was, in fact, as clueless as he seemed regarding the incident.

Well played, Mom. Well played indeed. But it is not over yet.

BEST. EVER.

Oh my god, I freaking love YouTube.

You must must must watch this.

That is all.

Don't Blink or You'll Miss It...

Hey Electro...
Happy Birthday!
Have a kickass [cookie-filled] day!

Retraction?

Dear Electro,
I don't really do retractions if they're demanded of me. And I certainly don't respond well to threats. Happy early birthday, though.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

No, I do not wish anything of the sort.

Have I told you about my loathe for the Pussycat Dolls yet? No? Well, it's there. And I just read that they're starting their own reality show! And do you know what the point is? To add another member. As if they don't already have more than I care to keep track of. As far as I know, they have the one talented girl (who really should go solo) and then any number of others who dance around behind her, wearing tiny clothes and having no talent whatsoever. They could change the members for every performance and I assure you hardly anyone would notice the difference. Their mothers might, I suppose. But that's about it. And now they're trying to add more! Come on now, ladies, isn't +/- 37 members enough for you? How many backup dancers does one group need?!

Ugh. (Also: when you go away, please for the love of everything holy take Fergie with you.)


By the way, yeah, I did take an unnecessarily long break from writing. Sorry, things got a little crazy! I'm back now, I assure you. Plus, big things to come from my other project, Manifesto Destiny. Have a look!

Wake Up Call!

Ask how long I've been awake. Go on, ask.

Nineteen hours. Now, if you're Jack Bauer, that is not a long time at all. But I am not Jack Bauer. I do not work for some high profile employer who requires me to put in long-ass days. It is only half past eleven and I have been up since FOUR THIRTY. AM.

Why, you ask? Why on earth would one get up so early unless it was necessary? Oh, maybe it was necessary, you're thinking. Nope! I was going to wake up around four hours later and do work and other things. But that last four hours did not happen. Because at 4:25am, my cell phone rang. I was compelled to answer. Because that is the emergency phone call only time frame. It is too late for a drunk phone call from a friend who wants to tell you how much they love you/need your help. And it is too early for a phone call regarding work or other early morning activity. It is strictly emergency time at 4:25am. So I answered. I muttered my hello, half asleep and half wondering what this unrecognized number was.

"Oh, wrong number."

That was all I heard of the unknown gentleman. He did not apologize, or even sound apologetic! He said, "oh, wrong number" and hung up! I felt jilted; as if I'd been waiting on a date and he called to cancel. Who decides that being pretty sure you know a phone number is acceptable at such an hour?! I should like to think that, unless it was an emergency situation, I would be very careful about not making erroneous phone calls at half past four in the morning.

Stupid stupid moron.

Goodnight, kids.