Re: I Want To Be Over You... I Love You Silently...

As of April 2nd this blog with cease. I will find a way to archive it for myself, and I will save the domain name in case I need it later in life, but I fear, my loves, we have come to the end of the line.

I used to get between 300 and 400 hits a day, but that has since diminished to 83 tops... and I understand. I am no longer "The Angry Office Manager." Boringly, I'm a freelance writer who actually works from home most days. Granted, this is what I wanted, but in the context, this blog no longer fits. So with all fun/good things, it had a time and place but as I am no longer an Office Manager, I feel to keep this up is just pointless and frankly, without purpose. No one or anything wants to be without purpose... am I right?

If I were desparate, I could try to keep up the Swede end of things, but that ship as sailed and the new fella (painfully new, somewhat fleeting and unaware of this blog) serves no purpose in this realm. However, I will keep up Pomegranate Seeds from time to time although my muse (le Swede) as since ceased in my life, I hope to find another muse. And you can also find my less "angry" rantings at I'm Obessesed Thank You Very Much and at a bunch of other sites... if you've figured out my last name by now (and you should have.)

So this is me checking out... on this blog anyway. In appreciation I leave you with Jeff Buckley's "Last Goodbye." But like I said, you all know my identity by now... so it's not an official goodbye, it's more like...

À bientôt!

xo. Mandy.

PS. I have no fucking clue what these lines are in white... a sign, I suppose.

Bon soir, mes amies.

Re: I Thought of You As Everything I've Had, but Couldn't Keep.

I came across my first Velvet Underground album today at my parents' house. I bought it when I was 13. I was at a flea market with my friend Holly and having just discovered the brilliance of vinyl, was set on acquiring a collection for when I had my own apartment... someday... you know... ten years from then. In the meantime, I'd hoard all I could and use my parents' record player. It was a short-lived phase and lasted only one summer. It didn't kick back in until I became a DJ in college.

The day I was at the flea market rifling through the $0.25 records a beautiful boy with blue hair noticed me man-handling a Ramones record. I had just discovered them a few weeks before and was set on falling in love with them at a speed unlike any other (again, this was also short-lived, as most things at 13 are.) I had Subterranean Jungle in my hand when the pretty blue-haired boy with a Velvet Underground album in his hand suggested I give them a listen.

Have I mentioned what a whore I am for boys with good taste in music?

He handed me the eponymously named album, and after he gave me his number and realizing he was 17, I took my two albums to the register, bought them and never called him. I wonder if his hair is still blue...

The problem with this Velvet Underground album is it skips during "Pale Blue Eyes" and since this was before itunes and the like, I actually went over a year not knowing how the song ended. I threw it out today, but I'll buy a new one soon... one that doesn't skip.

Broken records suck.

New I'm Obsessed Thank You Very Much.

xo.Mandy.

Re: We Leave Tonight or Live and Die This Way.

My coffee shop on the corner closed a couple months ago. It was a sad day for me. Although it recently opened again a couple blocks away, its old space has just been replaced with a Starbucks. I'm conflicted on this.

Granted, the East Village is not free of Starbucks. We have one on 10th and 2nd, and another in Astor place, but having one so close and closer than my usual spot has made the last few mornings difficult. First world problems? Hell yes.

This morning I walked right past the Starbucks, whether the line was rather small, and strutted on up to my other guy. However, other guy had a very long line and was out of croissants. Having a noon deadline that I should have worked on last night but was on a date for research purposes, I had to go to the Starbucks.

I felt like a trader to my neighborhood. I pulled my cap over my eyes so as to disguise myself in case any of neighbors were to recognize me through the window. I had just lectured the kids next door last week about the glory of Lil' Frankie's pizza last week as opposed to the Domino's that they insist on having delivered on a nightly basis. The only reason I know this is because, like their friends, the Domino's delivery guy has yet to figure out the difference between the number 13 and 14. A fact I find truly complexing as they look quite different.

It's about time for another coffee. There will be more inner conflict about it as I head in the direction of both shops...

Read: I'm Obsessed Thank You Very Much.

Listen: Xiu Xiu's cover of "Fast Car" that I've had on repeat for days.

xo.Mandy.

Re: It's Not That I Don't Try, It's That You Won't Again.

She sat across from me and tapped her fingers against the table. Between us sat two cups of tea, and although they had both been cooled for awhile, she still continued to blow hers each time she brought it to her lips. It was either out of habit or perhaps a sensitive tongue. I did not care which it was, I just wanted the moment to cease.

I looked at the clock. We had been there for almost four hours. I was bored. I had hoped she was too, but she appeared to be completely engaged in the conversation that was mostly one sided: she spoke; I nodded and said the obligatory "Oh really?" every few sentences. When she laughed at her own jokes, I focused on the crinkles around her eyes and immediately reached to pull at the skin around my own eyes. Don't crinkle. Don't crinkle. Don't you ever crinkle.

I realized in that moment that that's what adults do. They do not indulge in drunk brunch, nor do they dance until 5am and as for jumping on my bed until my record player skipped? I guess I could kiss that goodbye, too. Now that my life was without one who would jump on my bed with me, it would be tea and Bellinis for god knows how fucking long.

And my fingertips pulled into the palm of my hand and I thought about clawing out my eyes. I thought about throwing the fucking tea cups on the floor. They mocked me, is what they did...

When I brought this up to several friends the following day and later that evening I was asked: "But aren't you tired of it all?"

"Of what?" I asked.

"All of it," was the response that came from five people. Their definition on the matter was different, but only slightly.

I am not tired. I am without responsibility. I am without ties or children or obligation or roots that force me to stay put. I am without...

So I did what anyone without would do: I booked trip to Barcelona. Paris didn't seem far enough away so I might as well land there, stay there, but when my time is up, keep moving. You may not be able to outrun time or age, but with enough effort you can outrun responsibility and the past that pushed you into running in the first place.

Read: I've no new Pomegranate Seeds as my muse was lost in a fire in my sink, but I do have a new post on I'm Obsessed Thank You Very Much.

Listen: "Show Me the Place" by Leonard Cohen.

xo.

Mandy.

Re: Your Ghost Haunts Me But I Wouldn't Want It Any Other Way.

In a move to be adult-like I removed my former post regarding drama involving hate emails and email hacking. I, myself, am not innocent when it comes to all of this. Some of the most hateful things I have ever uttered have been directed toward Swede and his friends because of their disdain for me and his need to brush me aside for them.

I also know that in posting a link to the girl's blog, who contributed to all of this, I opened up the door for her to be ridiculed and harassed just as she did to me. And although she is someone who did force her friend to try to commit suicide because she thought it appropriate to sleep with her friend's boyfriend, and did tell me I should kill myself, I'm going to hope that deep down there is some good in her. I'm also going to take the high road from now on. I'm not fifteen anymore, and frankly, considering the stress this has caused it has easily made me age about ten years in five days.

There's so much hatred in this world and it's really a waste of energy. I don't want to hate these people just as much as I don't want them to hate me. Live and let live, and let's move on to all the great photos I'll be posting on my new Flickr account once I get to Paris.

But fuck, am I going to miss that boy.

xo.

Re: By the Time I Get the Courage I Am Drunk and You Are Tired.

I started a new blog:

I'm Obsessed Thank You Very Much.

I wanted a place to list all my obsessions. I also like making lists.

xo. Mandy.

PS. I literally just started it, so give it a day or two to get going.

Re: It's Not Because I Always Give Up, It Might Be Always Give Out.

I had never kicked a wall before that night. I was surprised to see how easy it was to do so. The wall, which I assumed to be far thicker, immediately collapsed in on itself.

Collapsed in on itself.

As I stood there, with my bare foot inside a broken, uneven and scattered edged-hole that was part plaster and breathing out dust from behind the scene, I realized I was temporarily stuck. My foot was somewhat wedged in the amoeba shaped space, but unlike an amoeba there were far more cells involved – you and I are more than one cell.

You and I are more than one cell.

When I dislodged myself, which involved a tumble to the floor, I looked up at the wall where you scrawled lyrics. In order to regain balance that was the wall that demanded attention from my palm… there was no shoulder.

Beneath me there is always a floor; I see it with my eyes and I feel it with every step. It’s hard to the touch and made of wood. I am not made of wood; so with every step, if you dare to venture, you will sink. It’s not because I’m giving up, it’s because I’m not made of something more concrete, more substantial; in less complicated words: I am not stable.

I head back to Paris March 6th. So there.

xo.

Mandy.

Re: Though I Writhed I Could Not Upset You...

And so it goes...

My mother called me today to inform me that I had not been keeping up with my blog. Although she is not an avid reader (computer illiterate and such), she was quite concerned by the fact that her friend's husband, a gentle soul by the name of Tim, informed her that I was not holding up my end of the bargain on this blog thing. This is true; gentle soul Tim speaks the facts.

It goes like this...

When you have a full time job, it's easy to write about the people who drive you mad. That was the purpose of this blog anyway. I once had the balls to compile it into a manuscript that is now a coaster for paper cups that leak coffee and pens that bleed when they're anything but upright.

I could complain about these things. I could put in words how I stood in line for a fucking coffee today for almost 20 minutes while hippies decided what fruit tart tasted more organic... but it's so flat and trite so I'll spare you. When you spend your days in your pajamas working from home it's hard to give a play by play of society and their annoying ways... in fact, you almost welcome them as a change of pace.

If I wanted to be more candid, I could delve into Swede and I, as I did so many times before. Isn't that what some of you signed up for? Watching a bad soap opera that lacked pictures and accurate descriptions of the characters that weren't really characters at all but two people real people... one a tormented soul who suffers from severe depression and the other who had been born too far above the equator to have really been capable of conceiving warmth and affection and inserting it into real life.

I could tell you that, again, he is gone, that I've booked a ticket to Paris again, that I'm swapping my apartment for the month of March, that I've spent the day being sick over history repeating itself... that I'm both done and done for... but that's something reminiscent of a 15-year-old's diary and I always hated Shakespeare.

Read: my article from Friday: "I'm Still Waiting to Feel Successful"

Listen: this song is a bit on the older side, but it's amazing all the same: "You Swan, Go On"

xo.

From the gal who temporarily appears to be back babbling again...

Re: From the Deck of the Pru, You Can Only See So Far...

The thing about being in New Hampshire and Massachusetts during the holiday season is that running into your past is inevitable. Since Friday I have seen several people whom I have not seen in years and each one said roughly the same thing to me during the first few minutes of our catch-up sesh: "I've been reading your stuff--thanks to Google--but I still can't believe you wrote that John sucked in bed in that article."

In each scenario, I had to once again explain that I, in no way, shape or form, publicly proclaimed that John, my high school boyfriend, sucked in bed. I wrote that when you lose your virginity it pretty much sucks for the most part, but you don't realize just how much until later in life. Had it been John or anyone else, the sentiment would have been the same, and in no way was meant to be a personal attack... because if I wanted to personally attack him for such a thing, I would have done so and not very eloquently to boot.

While my explanation has made these people agree with me temporarily, they then fire back with something along the lines of how after he unfriended me on Facebook over the "issue" (an issue that was so far under my radar it actually took me days to realize it), I wrote about how Facebook was helping me to "weed" out people in my life. So? It's true, and I've since dropped Facebook so as to avoid all the conservative twits with whom I went to high school. Although I do find them a ball of laughs when they dress their kids up in holiday gear and photograph their first shit and all that jazz...

However, in these few exchanges I've had over the last few days, it ends on a positive note where we all laugh, I'm informed that the high school boyfriend "hates" me and I'm asked if I'll be at the next high school reunion. I politely point out that I wasn't at the last, nor will I be at the next or any of the others that may follow. Our class president is running for the governor of NH and firmly believes that marriage should be between white, Christian, men and women, so I think I'll pass, thanks.

But there is some sort of satisfaction that comes from knowing that these people, the ones I've tried to forget or misplace or subtract from my past, actually took time out of their lives to Google me (obvs their existences must be severely lacking) and see what I was up to these days. To me, it doesn't make sense as I was quite invisible back then. My younger sister dated guys in my grade who didn't even know I existed. I was not popular at all, I had zero desire to be and went out of my way to not fit in with the crowd. My hair was a variety of different colors (pink always being a favorite) and I long had the desire, or rather the need, to get the fuck out of here as soon as I could.

I'm not sure how many more days I'll be at my parents' house. Since NYC pretty much shuts down this week, I'm almost tempted to stay here through the New Year. But that would mean more than a few days of possible run-ins with even more people who may try to chastise me, all while laughing of course, at one tiny sentence I wrote that I really thought no one would notice--especially that silly high school boyfriend. I mean, the kid never left this place and how was I supposed to know he had computer access in his mom's basement? I can't even get reception on my BlackBerry the second I come into town...

Oh, home for the holidays is swell.

xo.Mandy.

Re: On A Cold Christmas Eve You Promised Me Broadway Was Waiting For Me...

Despite the grey clouds and it looking like it may snow, it's quite warm here in the city today. I do not approve. Just as I don't approve of the tourists and my new neighbors rocking out to Maroon 5... a fact I had to Google since I can so clearly hear the lyrics through the wall.

There's a special place in hell for people who listen to Maroon 5 on purpose, and it's right next to those who give a damn about Coldplay and Lady Whatever.

I feel so Christmasy, apparently... I'm just busting with holiday cheer like a fucking gingerbread cookie covered in red sprinkles.

xo.

Re: Build Time Machines to Go and Get Us Back...

Much to my disdain, I have a new neighbor right next door. The crying one finally got herself hitched and officially moved out the beginning of October. I was happy that my days of being reprimanded at 4am for excessively loud music were over; and I guess I was quite certain that at the price the place was going for, there was no way in hell it was going to be rented anytime soon. Would you pay $2200 for a one-bedroom in the East Village? I wouldn't... but someone did.

Enter Gothy Hipster Guy.

Why Gothy Hipster? Because from far away he looks like your average douchy hipster, but when you get up close he's wearing black eyeliner and black nail polish to match. Someone call Jared Leto, I'm sure he'd be proud. However, at least Leto used to be Jordan Catalano, so he's almost forgiven... all others do not get off so easily.

As with my last *new* neighbor who moved in a year ago and lives directly downstairs from me and had the audacity to not only ask me for milk but brought me cupcakes his first week in the building, this one, too, is clearly not from these parts. If he were from NYC, he would know that we don't engage in banter with our building mates. Why? Because people move so often, people get old, people die and once someone thinks they're on comfortable ground with you, they'll reprimand you at 4am about your music volume.

I'd seen Gothy Hipster Guy a few times yesterday. Based on what I noticed, he hasn't officially moved in, but is doing some sort cleaning or up-keep or whatever the fuck Gothy Hipster fellas do before they move into a joint. I originally thought he was peddling something, was a delivery boy or a friendly mid-western visitor with his whole "Hey! How are you!?" bullshit. Then bitches stepped it up and decided to knock on my apartment door, and I put two and two together.

As a firm believer in living in a no-pants world, I didn't get the door, but looked out the peep hole to see the eyeliner loving guy all up in my door's grill. I can only assume he wanted to introduce himself, share internet or hound me about something totally pointless like the fact that I'm trying to grow a Christmas tree on the fire escape. I don't care if it's blocking his view--I've already confirmed it's not a fire hazard unless it's on fire!

So yeah... that's what's going on over on East 2nd Street... well, that and I'm going to be trying to score dates in my new red sweater as a social experiment for a dating website. Considering my way with men, I should be hitched just like my recently moved-out neighbor by January. You know, because when you sarcastically tell someone that you feel bad for them because they wanted to talk to you on a Friday night in a crowded bar, it apparently just comes off insulting and they go out for a cigarette and don't come back.

xo.Mandy.

Re: What Really Matters Is What You Like, Not What You Are Like...

...Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the fuckin' truth. - High Fidelity

I'm having a High Fidelity moment. After learning on Friday that my first love is officially engaged, in that he finally compiled the necessary funds to purchase a ring as opposed to snorting it up his nose, I have decided to take stock in my past relationships. Where did they go wrong? Was I to blame? And why am I not the marrying kind?

As I rack my brain as to what adjective pops up the most, "bitch," although unoriginal and boring, seems to be a favorite of those who have graced my life with their presence. High school boyfriend John M., unceremoniously, blocked me on FB, but not before telling me he was taking some other high school "friends" with him, because I talked shit about him in an article. I may have said in passing that losing my virginity sucked... yes, it was with him and yeah, it sucked; not because of him, but because it usually sucks. John is now living in Maine with a woman who looks like a foot.

Chris S. we can't ask because most of us are quite certain he is dead, as the last time he was spotted by a mutual friend, he was drunk in a bar in Boston planning to start his career in drug smuggling.

Dan D. put me in the "bitch" category after I dumped him for being poor (I was 19, so sue me), and what became of him is also up for debate although I'm sure he's in NH somewhere with a bunch of kids. At last check-in, he had impregnated a chick. Both Todd B. and Mike G. are now married, and I'm going to chalk that up to the fact that we dated a long time ago when we were too young to marry and you can't base a relationship on bad poetry and one Sunny Day Real Estate album. Matt S. married the girl he dumped me for--she was the lead singer in his band. They have a darling daughter, live in Boston and he now likes sports. The night we broke up I asked what it was about Mary, the lead singer, that she had that I didn't... a typical question you ask in the moment, but regret later. The answer? "She's more my style."

Timothy, whom I saw this past Friday, told me I was too complicated, lovable and fun, but not "simple" enough. Ben L. pursued me and tried to get me to run away with him just before his wedding (as we've covered recently), and even after marriage continues to pop up, but not for marriage, more for, well, I don't know what.

John B. was too much younger than I.

W the Bartender, is also married and has a kid, although according to my friend Thal (she saw him on the subway), its gender is that of mystery because it's so "wonky looking," and to continue to use her words: "you dodged a bullet there." And it's not as though I was going to have something long term with someone whose favorite book is The Da Vinci Code. Thom, was one of those setup situations that went off and on for about 10 months just out of sheer boredom, and well, don't know what happened to him, nor do I care, so I'm not about to track him down and check his relationship status. And these are the ones in my life who lasted longer than 6 months... all others, will not be accounted for.

Although I would like to sit down and ask questions, as it's both self-involved and shallow to assume it was you in each equation and therefore totally up my alley, I guess the truth is I wouldn't want to have married any of them anyway. I guess I just would have wanted them to ask, since in four of these cases, it was the relationship after the one I had with these people that resulted in marriage.

So that's where I am this week: In my pajamas, a pile of freelance topics to cover and my brain focused on me, me, me... but I don't think I'm a whackjob to want to know the specifics. When all you have is "you're not my style" and "you're not simple enough," to go on, it really doesn't help...

xo.Mandy.

new Pomegranate Seeds: Irrefragable.

Re: We Got a Minefield of Crippled Affection.

Yesterday, in between writing a bit of this and that and hanging around Veniero's to pick up macaroons (I must be in some sort of depression because all I want is sex and macaroons, and ideally together), I had to go to CVS to pick up some pills. Fine; they were anti-depressants and really strong ones, too--OK?

So I'm at the CVS waiting in line to pick up my goods when the woman in front of me, who was a good size woman so one would expect her to be jolly (aka. me in 6 months if I keep up the macaroon thing), but she was not, starts yelling and screaming at the pharmacist.

Mouthy woman: "Eight-fifty! You tellin' me this here prescription is eight-fifty?! You fuckin' out of your mind?"

Pharmacist: "Yes, that's the amount and please don't use that language with me."

Mouthy woman: "Fuck you, bitch! You're ripping me off. I can't afford no eight-fifty! What do I look like to you? Some rich bitch?"

Being somewhat naive, I thought they meant 'eight-fifty' as in eight hundred and fifty dollars. You know, about the amount that one would spend on a proper pair of Jimmy Choos. But no...

Pharmacist: "Enough with the language. It's eight dollars and fifty cents and that's what you have to pay after Medicaid covers the rest."

Mouthy woman: "No way! I can't afford that! Not this week, you better put that back and I'll come back when I can *afford it."

After I paid for my prescriptions that were far more than $8.50, I called my mother to relay the story. I do this from time to time because A. I fancy myself quite a storyteller; B. I call her everyday anyway; and C. I needed her emotional support after witnessing such an event.

I made my mother promise me that no matter what happens in my life, I will never regard $8.50 as "too much." She said she couldn't make that promise, but had I been a giving person, I would have stepped forward and bought the woman her prescription.

Mom: "It would have been the decent thing to do."

Me: "Why? It's not my problem she can't afford it. I can't afford lots of things. You don't see me asking anyone for help." (complete and utter lie, of course, and my mother, who financially supports me in many ways, knows it.)

Mom: "Is your mouth full? What are you eating?"

Me: "Mom, I'm having some sort of breakdown after that shitshow... I had to stop and get Italian pastries on the way home."

Mom: "And how much did you spend on these pastries?"

Me: "They were like $25... what's your point?"

Mom: "The point is... oh, where oh where, did I go wrong with you?"

*it should be noted she did buy $10 or so in pretzels and gummi bears. #priorities

xo.Mandy.

And now the terrifying results of listening to "Memories of You" by Ryan Adams on repeat:

new Pomegranate Seeds: Ersatz.

Re: She Was Practiced at the Art of Deception, Well I Could Tell by Her Blood-Stained Hands.

I have, on several occasions, attended friends' wedding solo style. I have found in the past that I prefer it that way than dragging a male friend along who knows even fewer people than I do. If I'm being tortured as it is, why should I selfishly inflict such pain on another?

Two years ago, at my friend Thal's wedding, I was completely content in being alone and spent the majority of the evening doing shots with the married Wall Street fellas in attendance who were there with their boring wives. I learned two things that night: boring, simple, uncomplicated women are the ones who receive marriage proposals; and wives do not care for the token single gal who will drink until dawn with their husbands. At brunch the following morning, I was shunned. My sister explained that married people see single people as a threat... I'm not sure why. I was drinking with them, not fucking them. I don't fuck rich boys in oxford shirts and Hush Puppies...

This past weekend I attended another wedding. I was given the option of a +1 and decided against it. I knew my friend was trying to keep the price of the wedding down and since I've yet to procure something permanent and everlasting, I didn't see why she should have to pay for me to bring along a buddy. However, I really could have used a buddy this time around...

I was 15 minutes late. When I got to the door, I noticed this fella with whom I had the sex and who had written poems about me (we were in poetry class together), was there. He was not friends with the bride or groom, but instead was engaged to a friend of the groom's--a fact I would later find out.

This person, whom we'll call Sebastian for this affinity for the band Belle and Sebastian, immediately shot daggers out of his eyes at me, and before the night was over, he got his wife involved in the intimidation attempt. I was not intimidated, but annoyed... it's not my fault his penis is shaped funny and I may have told one or two or five people within our group of friends. I was 22... 22-year-olds do that.

Next was the best friend of my former sometimes fuck buddy, mostly stalker, fella whom we'll call Coke, for his affinity for cocaine--(I also wrote about him here). Coke, who is now married with a baby, still calls occasionally. Although I never pick up, I know it's him as the last 3 digits of his number are: 666... obviously Verizon knew what they were doing when they chose that number for him years ago. So Coke's best friend was at the wedding because he's been dating the bride's friend for like 5 years now. This best friend makes sure to keep Coke good and drunk whenever he visits Brooklyn so Coke won't find himself outside my apartment declaring love and shit as he's done, oh, 30 times before. Coke's friends have always regarded me as a home-wrecker despite my lack of interest in Coke and taking him up on his offers to "please runaway with me so I don't have to get married this weekend." These pleas continued well after the day he got married. So of course, I was told by the best friend, at the wedding where I was already drowning, that I needed to stay away from Coke for good... I can't mess up his life anymore. What I'm gathering is to this day Coke is trying to convince his friends that I'm the one in pursuit of him, although I never was in the first place. I mostly just found his need to be dramatic and stand outside my window making declarations as both entertaining and ego-boosting... but I was set straight on Saturday in case I should, you know, have the urge to track Coke down.

Then we had Bad Hair, who since I first met him in college where we were all DJs (hence the reason for all these ridiculous connections), has had the worst hair I've ever seen this side of the Mississippi. Bad Hair went and married his college sweetheart with whom I was once friends, but then she slept with a guy who worked at Tiger Style records that I was hooking up with and in that moment our friendship came tumbling down. Although Bad Hair is unaware of the reasons--as she was dating him at the time this happened--he only knows that I'm a bitch and a backstabber, which is probably true, but not in this case. No, in this case, she's the backstabber.

So when Bad Hair, who was there sans wife as she loathes the bride as well, spotted me it was more of death stares in my direction... and I'm pretty sure the middle finger too, unless he always scratches his face with his middle finger(?!?). You know, because it wasn't bad enough to be alone, standing against the wall, drinking bad beer, having been lectured about how I'm home-wrecker, and confronted with a past that involves too much vodka and bad poetry...

When it came to dinner, I found that I was seated across from Bad Hair and next to Sebastian and his twitty looking whore-bimbo thing... that would not do. I looked at the two of them and walked away, squishing myself at the end of a table with a friend of the bride's whom I had met once... where I had a fifth beer and cursed my tolerance for being so high and for being relatively sober when I could have used a lil' kick of relaxation.

Needless to say, I was the first to leave the wedding.

I'm going to say that I have never been so uncomfortable in my whole life. I'm also going to say that I feel bad for these people who are hanging on to things that are a decade old at this point. The sad thing was, my dress was so damn pretty... and all it did was stand alone against the wall making small talk with the bartender... I hate small talk.

xo.

Re: A Pursuit Some Call Outstanding... Or Emotionally Complex.

Dear Merriam-Webster:

OK, I'm not sure what your problem is, but I strongly feel that your Word of the Day yesterday was not only in bad taste, but blatantly rude. I'm not sure who picks what word will be featured, but your choice on my birthday, September 25, 2011, was simply wrong. Let's recap, shall we:

Climacteric:

1: a major turning point or critical stage

2: a: menopause

b: a period in the life of a male corresponding to female menopause

3: the marked and sudden rise in the respiratory rate of a fruit just prior to full ripening

Well then...

First of all, I find your use of the word 'critical' threatening. It's cold to the touch, it's inappropriate and I do not find anything even remotely cute or charming about it.

Secondly, 'menopause?!?' Really? On my 34th birthday? Wow. Low blow. I cried to my friends over this for hours and they tried to tell me some malarkey about you, Merriam-Webster, are sending out words to people other than me, but I don't believe it. My friends seem to think that your Word of the Day doesn't revolve around me, but I beg to differ. Case in point, August 16th's Word of the Day:

Defenestration:

1: a throwing of a person or thing out of a window

2: a usually swift dismissal or expulsion

This was a Tuesday, and I was having a bad day. I probably had cried twice and probably had an argument over gchat with Swede where he probably compared my stature to a leprechaun, granted I don't know for sure, but it seems likely. So how it is that anyone could possibly think that you're not mocking me is just plain ridiculous. Shall we give another example? Fine... Friday, July 22nd's Word of the Day:

Adumbrate:

1: to foreshadow vaguely : intimate

2: to suggest, disclose, or outline partially

3: overshadow, obscure

Granted, I don't have a clear memory of the exact circumstances, but I know that once again, you chose a word on a day that you shouldn't have.

Do you see a pattern here? Do you get what you're doing to my life? If you don't send me a detailed letter explaining why you act this way and why you hate me so, I will be forced to cut ties. It was bad enough you sent me 'Katzenjammer,' back in 2008 when I was experiencing one of the worst hangovers of my life.

You're an asshole, M-W. We're through if I don't get that letter by tomorrow EOD.

Best,

Amanda