First Thing First

[A note: Yes, this blog has been out of commission for a little bit. We’re sorry, we’re just not good at keeping up with anything, let alone our personal drama, during the winter weather. It was too cold for us to exercise our creativity when everything we saw around us was snow, snow, grey skies, snow, snow, etc.  But we’re back now; we promise. Consider this the start of a great thaw.]

Soon it will be Spring; I can already feel it. If this winter has taught me anything, it’s that I definitely suffer from some slight form of seasonal depression. Just stepping outside my door on a Monday morning that’s warmer than 50 degrees can make any potential issues in my day seem less relevant (that, or I’ve taken this senioritis deal a little too far). My body and mind are more relaxed; I find myself smiling when I get on the subway, instead of wanting to break down in tears as my boots get wet after the six block walk to the station.

But this oncoming of nice weather and mental health means something different this year, something far better. In less than two months, I’ll be a college graduate, and although I’ve always had a penchant for holding on, white-knuckled, before change hits, I don’t think that will happen this time around. I’m ready for change. I’m ready for the temperature to stay well above freezing, for Rittenhouse to be continuously over-crowded, and I’m ready to finally stop living in the past.

Okay, so that’s obviously a huge statement that I may or may not be able to completely live up to . But let’s say that I’m at least going to try to stop looking backwards. It sounds easy, and sure people constantly use it as a mantra, but the more I think about it, the more I realize how many people (including myself) feel comfortable clinging to the once-was’s instead of the right-now’s. A couple of months back, G and I got real excited about the front-page of an overly expensive psuedo-psychology magazine, which advertised a promising article: how first time anythings will affect us pretty much forever. Finally, we thought, confirmation of our consistent conversation regarding our first-love relationships, and how they become this litmus test for every other romantic  interaction with have from then on.

Although the article wasn’t as near as in-depth as our discussions have been, it was nice to know we weren’t alone. Or crazy. We’ll spend hours sitting on our kitchen floor, debating whether we’re waiting for the next ‘serious relationship’  (whatever that means) to come along so we can forget this ground zero boy, or instead, if that ground zero boy will be a constant squatter amongst our baggage, a ghost that becomes slightly more opaque when Mr. New Serious Relationship becomes a little too serious. It’s hard to tell. Was I really in love freshman year but too young to realize how to keep that up? Was what I thought love, really just a feeling that I hadn’t felt before, and therefore believed it to be more concrete that it actually was?

Recently, I found myself at a bar with G and A, and some old friends. The type of friends I used to invite over to drink illegally in my sophomore year dorm room, and unfortunately, date. Yes, my very own ground zero boy (both ‘zero’ and ‘boy’ are appropriate descriptors) sat among these acquaintances. We’re not on bad terms, and nothing is ever that awkward between us (especially in public), so there was no need for dramatic shouting matches or theatrical glass-of-water-in-face type deals, but it did bring up some past feelings. Of course I remembered the good times, the happy times. The times I think about with G when I recall why I’m stupid for passing up my opportunity to be in love. For most of the night, we all joked about the hungover mornings after the obliterated nights, and the fact that we were graduating and finally moving on. It was fun. It was the type of nostalgia I usually relish in. 

But after spending the night with these old friends, and reminiscing about the good ol’ days, I felt empty. I didn’t stop the nostalgia at the point when my friendships with them drifted; I kept going. With or without them, in the past two years, I have accomplished so much, and I like who I am way better than who I was. I could look at ground zero boy and not care who he had slept with or what fight he got into with his parents this week. Of course in a way, it would be nice to go back there. I would have went home with that boy, slept in his bed, laughed at our inside jokes. But the next morning, when reality hit again, I’d just have to deal with the rest of the same bullshit I did back then: the fact that we weren’t ever as compatible as I thought we were; that I constantly felt guilty for being successful; that I never found psychedelic drugs appealing enough; the simple fact that what I wanted and what he wanted never met in even close to a middle ground.  So why, then, is he my reference point? Why should I continue to live in the past if that dismal outlook is my so-believed Edenic past?

The answer, I know, is because it’s part of the human condition to think this way. What else are we supposed to compare things to without that first-love experience? I don’t regret spending the first half of my college years caught up in a dead-end relationship because it taught me genuine lessons, but it’s only now, another two years later, that I’m starting to realize the impact of these lessons. Bottom line is I don’t want to conduct my life from that reference point anymore because it wasn’t healthy then, and sure isn’t going to be healthy now. I’m glad I had the opportunity to love and to grow (yes, I know, barf), but that period of evolution is stagnant. I’m not going to learn anything new by continuously retreating back to a comfort that only exists in my head. I can’t live in the past. Unfortunately, we all reside there occasionally – that nice warm center of our memories where everything is rose-tinted and Arcadian, but at 22 and almost-graduated, I refuse to give in to that anymore. There are too many other exciting and interesting people in my life for me to live with blinders on.

With all this said though, I feel slightly hypocritical; I may still resort to the well-known detriments, once other interests become blasé. However, living in the now is much easier when the ‘now’ isn’t covered in a constant blanket of slush and ice.  Besides, what’s Spring time without (at least the attempt at) renewal or beginnings?

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Five Things I’m Actually Capable of Doing for 2010

So it’s almost the end of January, and in my world of procrastination and laziness, that means it’s probably time to make resolutions for the year of 2010. Yes, it is that time of year again. The time when everyone makes (or, in this case, has already made) Top 10 lists and compilation CDs, and puts Death Cab for Cutie’s lyrics “So this is the New Year, but I don’t feel any different” lines in their AIM profiles! (Okay so maybe that was just, uh, me, sophomore year in high school, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit that lines from Transatlanticism did not make frequent appearance on my Xanga that year as well– best of 2004? Probably.)

Now is the time to start making a list of things that I am supposed to do that will make me a better person in all ways. Right.
One would expect plans containing the phrases ‘green vegetables’ or ‘morning jogs’ or ‘answer your goddamn phone more often,’ but alas, you’re going to have to visit the Oprah website for shit like that.
Instead, dear readers, here they are: A’s Resolutions for a Better, Happier, More Efficient Life in 2010:

1) Stop sending such grammatically accurate and wittily addressed text messages while intoxicated.
Why? For the singular reason that the recipient of such messages then doesn’t actually know that the correspondence was one of nostalgia, and/or tendencies brought on entirely by my good friends Sr. Patron (when I’m lucky), Jose Cuervo (my party acquaintance, really) and Jacquin (yes, that oh so cheap and excellent purveyor of white rum, among other alcohols, who admittedly, hangs out with me most nights in the form of a mojito).

Therefore, no, I did not soberly miss you.
No, I did not actually think about and consider my message as indicative of anything meaningful.
No, this was not a well-planned out attempt by me to resuscitate our relationship.

What’s really going on is that I am fucking wasted, to be blunt, or clearly on my way to getting there, and still have your number (fine, technically that’s my fault).
I’m sorry I have a clear gift for articulation and wry humor even three shots and a champagne bottle later, really I am.
I texted you. Sure. It was probably real nice and/or appropriate to our diminished romantic nature towards each other. Of course.
But don’t worry, I still remember that you’re actually kind of a dick, or that I don’t actually like you in that way, or that I had to rearrange my bedroom furniture in an attempt to forget you were ever in my house, (you know, the usual) the next morning. The thing is, you would remember that too, if I had inserted some grammatical errors, made typographical mistakes, or used some nonsensical words instead of verbs.
I’m sorry, I really am, which is why this is probably the number one priority to fix in 2010.
Also known as: Wasted? Text Like It, Then.

2) Date someone who actually utilizes emoticons in textual messaging.
This resolution also seems pretty obvious, although I have to admit this might be the toughest one to follow for me. Some people’s hardest resolution will be exercising, mine will be trying to get over a winky face utilized in a Facebook message.
As this year has proven (over and over and over again), gentlemen who excel at utilizing words with more than two syllables, varying their sentence structure stylistically, and have mastered the usage of semi-colons, almost always can’t deliver the goods in real life.
Sure, these boys look wonderful on paper, absolutely darling and adorable and beautiful, sure. But their internet persona is clearly a finely glazed facade, created intricately and masterfully with the right amount of pop culture know-how and indelible wit and intellect to mask the crumbling mess of denied emotions, repressed actions and inability to make beneficial decisions that aforementioned gentleman usually consists of. You know, in general.
Confused? Check E’s post about the same topic.
All that being said, maybe dating a guy who sometimes uses ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ isn’t the worst in the world. I mean, that shit can be taught, after all.

3) Never run out of white rum.
This is pretty self-explanatory, obviously, but is there a worse feeling then attending class all day, dealing with the citizens of Philadelphia on the subway and/or street (for those car drivers and bike riders), working for at least a five hour shift, arriving home rather weary, mentally worn down, and physically strained, only to find that the one glimmer of hope that had kept you company all day, the reward for keeping up all of those appearances, the compensation for working so dutifully, (also known as your evening cocktail) cannot be made because there’s maybe only half a shot left in the handle, and there’s no way that’s going to cover three Mai Tais?
No. No there is not.

For those that don’t believe in drinking during the weekday, not only am I, primarily, excessively taking pity on your lackluster life (which should seriously give you pause), I am also championing the purchase of extra white rum in general, because it’s always drinkable, no matter who your guests or what your situation. For instance, think of what two or three friends would say if you poured shots of tequila. Too strong for most, and with a reputation for leaving outright destruction in its path. Not exactly a friendly type of alcohol for most. Vodka? Oh, I’m sorry, are you a freshman sorority girl also wearing Victoria’s Secret PINK sweatpants who’s palms are currently a strange shade of orange due to a spray tan incident? If so, then ignore rum, continue with the Vladimir. If not, grow up and move out of the dorms already.

White rum is the ultimate equalizer, generally speaking, and it goes incredibly well with V8 Fusion, with a serving of vegetables in every glass (now there’s a way to accomplish two resolutions all at the same time!)

4) Spend more Wii Points.
This roughly translates to: Play More Videogames. This in turn can translate to: Play More Rock Band, as my Wii Points are consistently used in order to purchase various singles from the catalog of excellent rock and pop hits Rock Band makes available. After all, playing the same one hundred or so songs day after day can be quite bothersome, no?
I also have plans, admittedly, to purchase more original Nintendo gamage utilizing Wii Points, including the late great Super Mario Brothers 3, and hey, maybe even picking up some Pokemon Rumble.

Not only does is my Wii continually loyal and reliable, it also relieves stress, serves as an outlet for any sort of physical frustration (especially because pounding forcefully on the drum pads is oh-so satisfying), and is also a symbol of unification for E, B, G, and myself. “Let’s play a setlist before we go” is very often how our nights out get kicked off on such a good foot. After all, how can you be angry or worried or awkward after you’ve just played a four song setlist of the most fun pop/rock hits of your choice, on Expert, with your best friends, and not only did the crowd sing along with some of those songs, but they also provided you with enough digital money to buy yourself a new drum set AND that fur vest/leather pants/go-go boots combo you’ve had your eye on since you started playing in the band?

I rest my case.

5) Don’t trash talk ex-boyfriends, continue to trash talk ex-boyfriends’ girlfriends.
So everyone goes through that stage where you dated, (or in my case, semi-sort-of-a-little-bit-real-dated), a dude, and he turned out to be less than stellar, and all you ever want to do is tell absolutely everyone you know (especially everyone who knows him so it all gets back around) all of the awful things he did to you, of course, but also the weird confessions he admitted to you in the deepest of confidences while snuggling, the fact that your previous ex-boyfriend was  actually, uh, bigger, the random blonde hairs you found at his temple that you found endearing at the time but can now be converted into some sort of sign that he was going to not be good enough for you, and you even share the ultimate worst thing you can ever tell your friends: he was bad in bed. Period.
Some of these things are undeniably, amazingly true, but at the heart of it you know you actually liked those things initially, making the whole trash talk speech have a ring of false confidence that, yes, indeed, you’re better off without him. Some of these things are often only a little bit true, just exaggerated for so long that soon even you start to believe them on a grand scale, along with your friends. While maybe one or two are complete speculation (“Oh my God, maybe he was totally gay? It would have explained his predilection towards nice clothing and almost OCD-like cleanliness!”), after awhile, these items too become part of the bundle of Reasons Why We Totally Wouldn’t Have Worked Anyways & I’m Better Off, Seriously.

Knowing myself however, especially with my relationship choices over the past year, what goes around comes around. In guy terms, this means that I re-date all of my ex-boyfriends. Basically.
So what does this then mean? A complete re-spin and re-handling of the guy that once broke my heart, but is now currently spending his late evenings/early mornings stroking my hair and whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Did I say he was bad in bed? I meant that we just needed more practice! Of course!

In this manner, then, I should keep my big mouth shut from the beginning, especially in terms of physical aspects. There are months (or sometimes years) in between the start and stop of these relationships, anyways, therefore leaving plenty of time for experiences and opportunities and self-discovery. Boys are young and impressionable and adaptable; it’s only fair that I allow more time for them to figure their shit out before my ultimate judgements, right? Right. I can only hope they do the same as far as I’m concerned.

Oh, and as for these gentlemen’s new girlfriends, old flames, current mistresses, and international crushes? Riiiiight.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no matter how nice they may be to you in public, no matter how often you both attend the same parties at the same time, no matter how many friends you share, no matter how often they send you deceptively kind Facebook messages, no matter how much you get over the entire situation, girls don’t forgive and forget. Sure, I may only be talking about three girls in particular, but I’ve yet to hear differently.
As for these girls, say whatever you want at this point– you can be sure as hell she is.

Dear readers, I can’t say I have wishes of eating better, of excerising more, of networking within my field in hopes of a job, of being less competitve, of trying to reduce my carbon footprint, of making less caustic comments, et cetera, et cetera, but did you really expect all that kind of nonsense? I think not.

– A

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A one-off of Wisteria Lane

Excuse me while I write this from the comfy confines of the lounge chair in my kitchen. Color coordiated to the match the swirly taupe pattern in the hexeganol ceramic flooring, the chair-and-ottoman set is conveniently positioned so that my feet get all toasty from the coal stove when I throw them hapazardly over the armrest. Which I do.  Often.  There are—count them—seventeen cross stitches hanging on the walls, including a cornicupia, three cursive script alphabets, and one of my mother’s favorite dog, Dan, as a rememberance to his death eleven years ago.  A calendar with pictures of glorified roosters sits next to the rolodex and a pocket guide to “Birds of Pennsylvania”.  And, in complete solidarity with the rest of the room’s country bumpkin-ness, the door ledges are occupied by those cutesy little 2-D houses and local landmarks—you know, the ones with the black cats on them??

I want all of this.


Despite living in the middle of nowhere and at least a ten minute drive from anything useful, my parent’s house has all the characteristics of a glorified suburban home, “sprawling .5 acre lawn” and accompanying development notwithstanding. (Sidenote: there is a development in the area entitled Spread Eagle Village—this is not the type of community I am aspiring to.)    It’s the kind of cookie-cutter life millions of Americans live, and often hate, but I have to say the comfort and staticism that accompany a lifetime of mediocre steakhouse dinners and PTA meetings is incredibly appealling.


Which is really ironic, when you think about the fact that I’ve pretty much put myself on the fast-track to New York City, or any other major metropolis where magazine journalism is thriving. (Get it? It’s a joke.) I’ve got as many big dreams as the next girl, except that I’ve also got a significant chance at achieving them should I somehow manage to convince myself, truly, that the big city life is what I really want.  But is there really any part of me that wants to relinquish my car for a Metrocard and spend an extra $20 on shitty produce every month?


A few phrases I’ve uttered, very frequently, within the past month: “My goal after graduation is to not get a job.” “Whatever, I’ll just marry rich and freelance on the side.” “Oh my god, I’m having a cookie exchange party every year, starting immediately.”  None of these include the ambitious prospect of boxing up my life and cramming it in a 9×14 sq. ft. New York City studio that is double the rent of our South Philadelphia house, all so that I can work a 50 hour workweek as an editorial assistant making squat with no overtime and trying to budget out a pair of Louboutins so that I fit in at work.


Aside from the shoes, which I will surely still own when I’m a suburban housewife traipsing around the local mall, none of that sounds appealing.  It sounds appalling.  As far as ridiculous, unachievable dreams go, I instead find myself envisioning a life of mailing annual Christmas cards, packing peanut butter-and-banana sandwich lunches, and redecorating the den.  I want to watch Rachael Ray every morning and scour recipe books for a standout casserole.  I want a husband that compliments both my meal and my hair, and friends that come over for monthly dinner parties—the unpretentious kind, with baked potatoes instead of cream fraiche and wine over dry martinis.  I even want kids!  Beautiful little children who respond with bright-eyed emphaticism when I ask them about their day.  Straight A’s and captain of the soccer team?  Oh, they’re growing up so fast these days.


So I’ve essentially inserted myself into a life clusterfuck.  Not only haven’t I got a clue what will happen after graduation in a few months, I have no idea what I want to happen.  As much as I aspire to suburbanism, do I really want that straight out of the gate?  Or do I take my time, see the world, strategically plan out my career options and abandon them at the nearest sight of mediocracy?  Perhaps I’ll find myself settling into the comforting middle-ground of academia.  Maybe I won’t write for magazines, I’ll just talk about them.  Spending a few days discussing Dorothy Parker and practicing query letters?  I can do that.  Instead of working in the media, I’ll foster the minds of those who will.


Bonus points for summer breaks and an office.  As long as my desk has room for a few family photos.


xoxo,
Emily


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Lesson Learned: Less Boys, More Video Games

For years, I had no idea what I wanted, in terms of boys, while proclaiming passionately that I absolutely and completely did.

Ironically enough, this led to me defensively constructing the image that I was an individual who not only knew exactly what she wanted, but knew how to express it, and even how to express it in a clear, articulate, eloquent manner, even if that manner might have sometimes included dramatic flourishes.
[Examples include having argument in a rainy parking lot in which I got to stomp off towards my car immediately following a speech to drive off unsteadily into the darkness (true story) and being only semi-kidding about running away with a paramour from an ultra-Romantic, ultra-unconsummated love affair of mine (yeah, that one’s true, too). ]

So upon entering any kind of romantically-tinged relations with me, a boy expected that I would know what I wanted, so that if he so chose, he could offer those items, and that we could then build an emotionally stable, physically exciting, mentally rewarding relationship together.

Clearly, those relationships were hard to come by for me, and after exasperating conversations, arguments, and confessions, it came to my attention that clearly, I had no fucking clue what I was doing.

In this state, there is obviously no way I could engage in any sort of emotional relationship, and so for the better part of this past half of 2009, I set about fixing myself, finding myself, enjoying myself, and mostly, realizing what the hell it is that I really wanted from the male individuals that allegedly wanted something from me.
I was not imagining that these gentlemen, indeed, wanted something from me other than brief flings, whether emotional or physical. Here come the quotes.

“Well, you’re a hard one to pin down.”
“I’m going to be honest here, you’re like the ultimate emotional tease.”
“Amanda, you’re a mess. You have no idea what you want.”
“Sometimes I just feel like I don’t know you at all. Who is Amanda Garcia, seriously?”

These are quotes, with minute adaptation, from various gentlemen, who have, throughout various points in time, admitted that they wanted to be involved with my person in some romantic or generally emotionally attached manner. Rather dismal to read all in a row, so I apologize, dear reader. This is not a pity party, I promise– in fact, rather the opposite. After years of being told I am very much the stereotype of a crazy, emotional, spontaneously unstable girl, therefore resulting in these multiple relationship and commitment issues, I’m starting to realize that hey, maybe it’s not just me.

First of all, I’m not even going to try to answer who Amanda Garcia really is, as that’s basically a question that I’ve been working on for the duration of my life and still haven’t come up with a succinct answer to (although Twitter has required me to come up with ‘Hannah Montana meets Brett Ashley’ as a proxy).

And yes, I am a little bit of a mess. I can somewhat agree with that statement–my hair will never be coiffed perfectly, I will always spill my soda, my socks will always have holes, I will never apply liquid eyeliner with a professional precision, and my laugh will always be a touch too loud for the venue I am giggling in. These are facts.

But lately, although I tend to love the dramatic tensions and romantic idealizations of my (usually) unrequited relationships with gentlemen, I have, for once, “got my shit together” as stated earlier by my aforementioned dip into finding out and celebrating and enjoying ME, Amanda Garcia, and what I needed/wanted/liked/hated/etc.

In this manner, then, I figured out, with startling precision, exactly what I wanted from certain individuals, and exactly how much I wanted them. Believe me, this was a bonafide revelation in the life and times of A. Garcia.
The ironic twist, of course, (there always is one!) is that as soon as I had figured out exactly how to sort boys in general, which ones I wanted and which ones I did not, which ones I loved, and which ones I hated, and which ones were clearly only infatuated with me because of some vague ideal they created in their minds, which ones I would never date because they’d never understand the satisfaction of beating a RockBand song on Expert in the 90 percentile, etc, the most important individuals affected by my romantic decisions, for lack of a better term, freaked the fuck out.

I was, however, eerily calm and nonchalant. My articulate arguments and confessions were coming from a real emotional place. They were supplemented with examples, with sources, with quotes, at times.
I wasn’t confused. There was no vague wording that allowed for me to contradict myself later. I wasn’t scared of a cross-examination argument, because I had nothing else to hide behind.
I had decided what I wanted and when I wanted it, and that was that.

Except for the fact, then, that these certain boys, people I still continue to care about on some level, have yet to respond to my conclusions. With an honorable mention to a male who left a half-assed attempt response to a quite eloquent email of my true feelings and inclinations towards him by leaving me a voicemail and then never calling me back again (even when I gave him the benefit of the doubt and called back, giving up my personal pride [which I assure you, is monumentally hard for me particularly]), the message is still crystal clear.

For as long as these boys told me how confusing I was and how I didn’t know what I wanted, amazingly, it just turns out they were just far better at hiding all of that insecurity, instability, and general lack of strength to decide if they wanted me enough to just fucking go for it.
Welcome to the club, gentlemen: you also don’t know what the hell you want.

But this time around, you can count me out. After all, all the time I spend waiting around for you to finally want me back in the way I need to be wanted would be far better spent on mastering Metallica’s “Battery” on Rock Band. On drums. On Expert. With my eyes closed, why not?

Now that’s a goal I can put some effort into, not to mention impress people at parties with. Obv.

– A

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Can I Date Your Internet Personality Instead?

There’s a lot of talk that goes on on this blog about boys. We are, after all, five young, mostly single (take that ambiguity anyway you’d like) women living in a city. I’m sure our male counterparts discuss relationships and sex as much as we do, they just don’t post it on a public forum.

But I’d like the make the argument against the possible notion that such discussion is irrelevant, dramatic and, most of all, vapid. I’d like to think of myself, and my roommates, as expressive people, who may not always wax poetic about social injustices or organic chicken farms, but we do value intelligence. And, we are intelligent. In fact (and maybe as a direct result of my recent interest in Woody Allen movies), I’ve come to realize that I’m attracted to that intelligence and intellectualism — especially when it’s expressed through  electronic communication. As someone with two majors and a job which involve a whole hell of a lot of writing (and thinking about writing and talking about writing), I can’t help but to value the appearance and substance in other people’s written form too. I’m not saying I’m some sort of grammar Nazi (I mean, scroll back to my couple of entries, and I’m sure you’ll find plenty of slip-ups). I don’t mind if you want to write me a ten-page prose about sports or car engines (or other overt boy stereotypes?), I just mind if you do that with too many exclamation points or emoticons. For me, it’s about the how you’re writing, not the what you’re writing. It’s a personality you’re portraying through the computer/phone screen.

I guess the issue lies in that previous statement, or more specifically in the ‘computer/phone screen’ section. Our generation (am I old enough to say ‘our generation’ and have it mean something yet?) is completely and irreversibly conditioned to communicating in this way – through text messaging, instant messaging, e-mail messaging, facebook messaging (basically everything other than pigeon messaging). And honestly, sometimes that’s a God send. Sometimes, I’d really rather not ask a professor for an extension in person — it’s so much easier to be meek and intimidated through e-mail. Sometimes, I’d really rather not break up over coffee at a well-trafficked public coffee shop — it’s better if you do that sort of thing on Gchat (I wish I was kidding…).

Regardless, we grew up on this sort of interaction. We have no excuse. From the age of 13 or 14, most of us became adept at instant messaging, and for the girls at my middle/high school, that’s where we started understanding the magnitude of the types of subjects people brought up online: the drama, the love lost or found, the making of Saturday night’s plans, the prom-date asking (Um..yeah, I wish I was kidding about that too). Things happened online, and we were forced to pay attention. So why then, good reader, do some of us exhibit completely different personalities through this messaging? Well, actually, I want to rescind said question. I just explained why it was easier to have certain personality traits online, so I guess it’s obvious. Maybe the better question is then, why, when you happen to be completely amazing, eloquent, and witty online, do you have to fail so hard in real life? (Or more puzzlingly, the opposite: why are you sort of awkward, facebook illiterate, and never use commas in e-mails, but you can make-out really well for hours in real life?)

Earlier back, A wrote an entry about proper electronic messaging etiquette, and it is something we talk about often. It’s a recurring theme in our house, as incoming text messages are scrutinized and subjected to five people’s extreme hatred for overly-enthusiastic e-writing. Yes, it’s nice to know that you’re glad you saw me on campus, but you don’t have to emphasize that with a !!!!!. As I write this though, I’m beginning to think that this is probably unique to people like A and myself (and 1528 as a whole, I guess) because what it could mean for potential suitors (I can’t hide the Aquarius in me — detachment and elusiveness are my finer points, apparently). Over the summer, I wrote A an e-mail basically in the vein of this Internet personality disorder (names have been changed to prevent riots)*:

Amanda,

If I only classified boys, and my relationships with them, by the e-mails they sent me, here is how my relationship history would read:

X and I would have had a long, functioning, funny, enjoyable relationship that was both grammatically correct and sexually pleasing.
Y would have been a casual encounter in which we would have generally enjoyed each other’s company, but, for the most part, we’d have been pretty incompatible. Excluding the few times we would have surprisingly intense, great sex.
Z and I would just be really happy to see each other. ALL THE TIME!!
W just wouldn’t have existed.
And you, A, would be my summer fling — completely satisfying, short-lived, and from then on, my touchstone for relationships**
Anyway, hopefully you and Brian ‘I met you on misconnections’ Whatshisface works out. And that he knows when to use a semi-colon.

For as off-handed as I meant that e-mail to sound, once I wrote it, I started to believe its sentiments a little too much (and thus, the entry which proves I’m still thinking about it…). Until recently, I imagined that one day I’d find a man who was a composite of perfectly written online wit and emotionally reticent in reality. But honestly, even if I’ll hold on to that sentiment quietly inside for a while longer, it’s time to grow up. If I don’t use AIM anymore, I don’t Twitter (tweet?), and I’ve been weaning myself off Gchat (slowly), then I shouldn’t hold on to their ramifications or repercussions.

No one is going to sweep me off my feet — virtually or otherwise. I’m too much of a pain in the ass for that to happen (N.B. the hypocrisy of this entry: I hate using mediated communication, yet I’m expressing my inner-self through it). It’s time to move on from online. It’s okay, we can date even if you use one too many question marks or tell me that you’ll meet me ‘their!’

This being said, however, I’d like to end on with disclaimer: please don’t expect my future entries to ever exclaim anything too fervently or be anything less than emotionally hyper-aware.

Come on, I may have lost my dating standards, but that doesn’t mean I’d let myself go so soon….

*In addition, portions of this e-mail have been edited. You should not need an asterisk to comprehend this, as you presumably just read an entry about how I care about such things.
**At this point in time, 1528 and I currently had a couple of states between us for the summer, and I guess I was taking it not so well…

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Filed under Leen rants

I Can Only Write These on Tuesdays, Now, Apparently

G & A, owners
of a brand new e-mail!
Love letters welcomed.

Also, just for you:
Podcast four is on the air!
(If ‘air’ means ‘online’).

It’s legit, dear readers.

iTunes us! (Search ‘Gannett & Amanda’ in the iTunes Store!)
GCast us! (Uh, follow the hyperlink, obv.)
E-mail us! (Send happy emoticons denoting a job well done to GandAHaveAnEmail@gmail.com)
Facebook Fan us! (To see if our voices match up to your visual expectations.)

– G & A

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Filed under Amanda rants, Gan rants

Even unconsciously, I’m hating on single boys

Cute boy from class now

in a relationship on

Facebook.  Expected?

xoxo,

Emily

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Filed under Emily rants