facebook slut!

You can tell a lot about a person by their Facebook profile. I find myself hypothesizing whether or not a person is "my style" based simply on the additions to their personal information on FB. I can tell you with confidence that a person is incompetent, witty or trying too hard with a few simple clicks of the mouse.
Hasty? Maybe. Accurate? Maybe. You bet.

My own profile says a lot about me in very few words. Should a stranger to my person take a gander at my info tab, I've ensured that said stalker would get an immediate vibe of "is she boring? No she's just simple".
Low-maintenance. Lives in Austin. Enjoys deceased Latin American pop-stars (R.I.P. Sel) and is totally into peace.
That's about all the 411 I freely give away, and you'd better believe it was well thought out.
Others, though, use Facebook to sell themselves. Between women, there is always an unspoken competition. Its just there; sometimes in our subconscious, sometimes right out on the table in our dueling cupcake batches we brought to the party. I just really wrongly used gender roles against women, what?? Facebook is one of the places where I can measure up my competition in a way that is discreet and oh so telling. The site has become a brothel of sorts, only there's no happy ending.
I know women who pour their hearts out on their social networks, seeing nothing wrong with advertising the fact that they were dumped by their boyfriend yesterday because they are fat and/or boring.
And he can go fuck himself!!!! You tell 'em, girl.

Facebook has become our own personal sounding board to broadcast our views, likes (literally), dislikes, updates and almost anything else our quivering fingers can bang out. Our "walls" allow us to cyber flirt, stalk, talk and share just about anything we'd like; information enough to get a feel for any active user.

Still, there's something far more intimate about browsing a person's personal information tab.
We put thought into the things that we say in this area.
Does this reflect who I am? Can people relate to this? Am I proud of the fact that my favorite musical artist is Miley Cyrus and that I love the Jersey Shore? If you are that person, shame on you more power to you. You can freely upload those preferences and share them with others who share your terrible taste. Networking, y'all!

I'm guilty of making big decisions based upon Facebook information.
Oh, her favorite TV show is Dirty Little Liars? Probably incompetent.
Two of his profile pictures are shirtless mirror shots? I'm actually celibate, sorry!

And while this is certainly judgmental, I don't think I've ever been proven wrong after appraising a bad profile. But there's a method to my madness, folks. I'm well aware that many people make their profiles look stupid on purpose, for laughs, if you will. With others though, there is simply no room for explanation. There are a few deal-breakers that immediately result in the label of "dumb bitch":

Bad Quotes: As a lover of words, I understand the attraction and power of a meaningful quotation. I also understand that a vast majority of the quotes out there are extra-sharp cheddar cheesy and come off as a desperate cry for attention from the opposite sex.

Behold: the oft used and frequently scoffed at by yours truly Sex and the City quote:

"Maybe some women aren't meant to be tamed. Maybe they're supposed to run wild until they find someone, just as wild, to run with."
-Carrie Bradshaw

 Translation: I've never had a boyfriend and I'm getting desperate; this sounds like a great excuse. I need a Xanex.

The same can be said of just about any quote by Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn that litter the cyberspace of so many forlorn ladybirds fiending for a man's touch. They're foaming at the mouth via Arial Narrow, and while you may see an innocent excerpt from a bombshell's iconic mouth as their virtual wallpaper, I see an empty box of chocolates that was self-purchased on Valentines Day and a desperately drunken addition to her "about me".

The Self-Portrait: Gag-inducing every single time. Why? Why is this necessary? This attempt at sensuality is appropriate only for drugged-out 80s rock-stars and baby prostitutes. Not only does this breed of harlot clearly have an issue with her own self-importance, making friends also seems to be a hurdle she can't quite clear. Red flag, fellas. Start dating this one and you'd better saddle up for an estimated two months of kissing pictures by your own hand ("your arm is longer baby!") and glitter lipgloss accentuating your pout.
Two months max. You'll see.

♥♥♥: These hearts know no boundary. When I see them, I see myself. And when I see myself, I see myself on the ground in a pool of my own vomit. Unless you are under the age of 18, these graphics have no business in your life. Do yourself a favor and graduate to the emoticon.
Far more elegant, far more becoming. You're a big girl now!

Passive-Aggressive Status Updates: You know the kind.
Here are a string of consecutive status updates from my favorite passive-agressor. This girl is for real.

"Dear girl in my math class; if I dont understand a problem please don't roll your eyes and make a stupid noise; your annoying me and just cause you can do it doesn't mean you should put other people feel stupid."

"Not even worth itttt." (Extra t's for emphasis, obviiiii)

 "just sooo tired of it."

"i really hate when people act like they are so much better than everyone else. ugh"

"i'm really tired of people playing other people to the left, do you think you could just tell someone if you don't want to go out, smh people piss me off."

And finally,  

"who wants to go out tonight????"

Who DOESN'T party girl!? Can't wait to listen to R.Kelly and slit our wrists. Text me!

Hay tan ejemplos mas pero necesito salir. Te quiero mucho y vamos a hablar mas tarde. Clean up your profile! Big Brother is watching!

history lessons.

The internet is a dangerous place, man. As a student of multimedia journalism, I'm well aware of the power of technology to track me down as I bounce from site to site on my laptop regardless of the so-called "security settings" I choose. No firewall can keep your bidness locked away forever; even if we delete our shameful past www's (my Myspace page still claims that I am inspired by the Backstreet Boys), you better believe they can still be excavated from the years and years of Internet traffic we create.
We're surfing the web in shark infested waters, and I forgot my fucking wetsuit.

I'm logged onto the Internet all day long. Between my smartphone pushing shit my way every 30 seconds, journalism labs and my own laptop, I'm truly never unplugged. And while I don't typically obsess over the FBI following my online presence, I've been thinking lately about what exactly my browser history says about me, without any defense to support my cyber searching.

The conclusion is this: over the past 24 hours, my Firefox history indicates that I am either a lesbian or a cat-lady.
Maybe even both; we already have pussy in common. (I hate that word, had to make the joke, sorry Mom.)
Point being, I've created my own version of internet porn, and it revolves around infant animals and Colombian sex-pots.
The single most popular site on my recent history is called ZooBorns. A close runner up? Google Images of Sofia Vergara. You may know her as the seriously bangin' Gloria on Modern Family. Lets be real, if I ever gas-up for a road-trip down lesbian lane, she'd make a wonderful husband.

Constantly being online in and of itself is a guilty pleasure that has taken contemporary society by storm. For many of us, the Internet is where we do our "dirty work"; its a place where we can ask questions and find answers about our interests that we prefer to keep to ourselves. I'll never forget that tingle I felt at the age of 12 when I used Ask Jeeves to find out what a blow-job was. (You put it in your MOUTH!? Omg ew, no way!) And while it took at least twenty minutes for Jeeves to fetch me my answer via dial-up modem, he turned out to be a worthy butler and I am eternally grateful to his snobby French ass for aiding in my sexual education.

Let me talk to you about ZooBorns. I cannot get enough of this godforsaken site. ZooBorns is an absolutely brilliant weblog that uploads pictures of newborn animals from Zoos across the world to allow softies like myself to nearly hemmorhage from cuteness overload. And while I don't necessarily agree with the concept of exploiting animals for their looks, the business is dirty and sex sells.

That has nothing to do with this.

Last weekend, my roommate walked into my cave to find me neck-deep in a pile of baby animal photos boring holes through my eyes. I kid you not, I stared at that screen for at least an hour gaping at the never-ending photo catalogue of babes. Each animal brings a different sentiment. Who needs a shrink? I do. Take a gander at these bambinos and you'll experience a whirlwind of emotions you may not have even known you had...

Holy spots, tell me that is not the most adorable nugget you have ever laid eyes on. On a green polka-dotted background, no less.
Spots on spots. Spot ON. See what I did there?

Even for a Jewish vegetarian, these piglets are delicious. Treif has never been so appealing. Look it up, gentiles.

Eel? Worm? Diseased penis? All wrong. This is a baby Caecilian. Precious right? ZooBorns doesn't discriminate.

 

How did my baby modeling picture get in here?! So embarassing, that is not supposed to be in here, seriously.

Oh my god. Could you die? I could die. I have to stop looking at these creatures. I'm about to explode! 

I think you understand the point of ZooBorns, and I also think any of you who think this is a ridiculous hobby to continue should go dart-gun yourselves in the neck. I dare your stubborn ass to not click over to ZooBorns. Double dog dare.

On to Sofia though. 

Let me explain. I promise I wasn't just horny and down to try switch-hitting with a voluptuous South American. 

Modern Family happens to be a brilliantly written show, and one that I love to watch. Sofia Vergara's character is a hoot, and I wanted to know where the bitch came from. Among other dirt I dug up on her, I discovered that her beautiful brown locks are naturally BLONDE. I was appalled. An imposter! And so, I began scanning pictures of her on Google images. Is that a crime? I don't think so. Perhaps the fact that I Google-mapped her house and already have a teddy-bear video camera installed is. I just want to see how the other side lives!!!! 

Can I plug Google any more in this post? Probably. Google.

Alls I'm sayin is this: should I ever depart this earth unexpectedly, I'd like to leave my browser history in the hands of the children. 

Take it and walk tall knowing that your online presence couldn't be nearly as pathetic as mine. Happy surfing!

totes the best hun-cal froyo.

One of my all-time favorite videos. Watch it multiple times and you won't stop quoting it for weeks. One of my biggest guilty pleasures. Also, these men are spot-on; watch for yourself in some of these lines. "I had the Jamie Lee Curtis yogurt..."
Oh, a note for the observant: yee old blog title is found in this vid....alert!
BYE TALK TO YA!

small miracles.

I remember a time when craft-stores existed in my mind as the Mecca of all things fun. In a toss-up between Disneyland and Hobby Lobby, it would have taken some serious convincing to lure me away from the high I experienced every science fair season while roaming the aisles of felt and fake floral arrangements that line the HL, as I like to call it.

Over the years though, I've matured. I'm no longer consumed by the immediate necessity of a sand-art fix, nor do I require new posters of puppies to adorn my pre-Bat Mitzvah walls on a bi-monthly basis. I'm a woman now, there is no denying, and along with my developed figure has emerged a developed taste for fun and adventure, sans lanyard string. Still, the occassional lap around my neighborhood Hobby Lobby never fails to get me all hot and bothered, regardless of my mature-as-fuck carraige. Why you ask? Because if there is one tchotchki women are powerless against its a poison craft-stores know and manufacture all too well: the miniature.

I've always had a thing for small packages. Get your minds out of the gutter. Sexual references aside, I will happily swear on any midget that bittier is better.

Allow me to chart for you my love affair with minis.  

Age 4: Polly Pocket.

The tiniest bitch I've ever known, and I loved her with a passion I've yet to duplicate with a human being.  

Age 6: My Little Pony.

She was mine and she was little and she was all I could ask for in a tiny plastic horse. And that BRUSH! Miniscule! Lovingly sandwiched snugly between my pointer and thumb finger; it would have stroked that rainbow mane for hours on end.



Age 8: Tamagotchi.

You may know them from such things as Giga Pets, the rip-off version that still sees success today in spite of its stolen origins. I'm still bitter. My Tamagotchi was my figurative big-toe dip into the waters of parenthood. Even cleaning up its virtual poop was enjoyable. You know why? Because they were virtual tiny. And resembled Hershey Kisses. I was such an exemplary mother to little Tam that I was awarded "Best Tamagotchi Mom" at the final banquet for my summer swim-team. Apparently my breast-stroke fell just shy of impressive. Why am I telling you this?? 


Age 16: My miniature madness takes a turn for the racy and comes in the form of tiny booze.

It was high school, baby, and I was living young, fast and free. What? I'm GROUNDED?!  Totes sneaking out later. OMG, wait. I stole three bottles of Jim Beam from my grandparents' minibar last weekend! No, you idiot its like rum or some shit. Score! We're gonna get soooo wasted!!!!

And now, present day. 2011. I find myself tantalized by the tiny with every turn of my head.

Why spend money on food when I can buy an entire brigade of two-inch high Civil War soldiers that I can strategize the Battle of Gettysburg with? Its an entire army! From a birds eye view!!!

My latest punitive penchant comes in the form of miniature utensils.

I'm melting. And its not this dry Texas heat. A tiny fork is all it takes to unlock the key to my cold, cold heart. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing, if you have no soul. But any mini enthusiast will happily admit that there is something about those diminutive prongs that tugs at our heart-strings in a way an ordinary fork simply couldn't without puncturing an artery.

This miniature madness is a blessing and a curse, ladies. And one we must all learn to accept.
The best things truly do come in small packages, just ask these broads:

cheer sex.

I am sitting at a desk in the sports department of the news station where I intern multiple times per week. Growing up with a devoted obsessive sports fan for a father made for an interesting and oft contradictory upbringing as a girly-girl, in that I was never permitted to BE a girly-girl.

At the age of four, my father enlisted his monkey in the middle (thats me) on a co-ed soccer team with the menacing title of "Blue Jammers". I begged him to let me stay home and play with my cabbage patch doll who was in desperate need of a haircut, but he heard none of my pleas, and before I could cry to my mother for a feminine and understanding ear, I was reluctantly trudging to my fate in what would be the first (and last) soccer game of my career.

I should have known from the pre-game stain on my jersey that this game (and my sanity) was doomed. During my debut minute, as I ran alongside my cohorts in blue, I was knocked out (actually...knocked OUT) by an excessively forceful Aryan tot on the opposing team. I'm convinced he was recruited from a family of giants; this fucker did some damage. Not only was I left with a grass-and-tear-stained pout, but the game happened to fall on my birthday. All I know is that I gained consciousness halfway through my clown-themed fourth birthday party, and I was too disoriented to jump on my own damn moon bounce. Thanks Dad.

This mishap didn't stop my dear old Dad though, ohhhh no. His prescription for my ailment was to rub some dirt in it and suit up for a childhood and adolescence dominated by swimming, tee-ball, softball, volleyball and the occasional bout in naked mud wrestling. All this to say, I was force-fed sports my entire upbringing, and although I resisted initially, I will now proudly say that I know and love sports thanks, in large part, to my overbearing Fasha.

And so, now, every Friday night, I cover high school football as a member of the media. I drive out to games across Central Texas and revel in the fact that so many of these angsty teens think I'm an actual anchor and stare at me with googly eyes as I strut up and down the sidelines. I love watching the football, but I never fail to catch myself distracted as I log each game.

It's not the form of those underage bootays in their football pants that has my eyes straying from the line of scrimmage, though. I'm staring at two parallel lines of pixies cheering their little hearts out and all I want is to snatch a pair of pom-poms from the awkward girl with noodle arms and join in! It's almost too much to bear!

For many of my girlfriends, sports are boring. They're ready to leave at halftime of a tied football game in favor of cosmos and ritas at the nearest bar. I'm proud to say that I'm not one of those girls. But I have to join the ranks and admit that watching those nuggets do backflips across the endzone makes me just as giddy as a 70-yard kick-off return would. And I'm a SPORTS intern!

This is embarassing for me to admit. I'm losing all of my credibility here, but this is a guilty-pleasure blog and so here I am, convicted of being a chick in the purest sense of the word.

In my next life, I'm going to be a cheerleader with a bedazzled jacket and no earthly idea what 1st and 10 means. Now back to this Redskins game...

my diet starts tomorrow.

You know that friend you're embarrassed to be seen in public with? The one that still uses Sun-In and wears frosted pink lip gloss on the reg to complement her spray tan and Bebe top? She's typically dressed in clothing that fit her pre-collegiate frame and now resides somewhere between muffin and top. Regardless of her physicality, girlfriend is out of her mind. Four years of co-ed life and binge drinking has transformed her into a man's worst nightmare.

Somewhere along the road of higher education she detoured, abandoned English Lit for Us Weekly, and began to obsess over teenage pop-stars instead of her falling GPA. This nutty strives to find a love as deep as Bella and Edward's, and until that happens, she'll have her feelings and eat them too. Her life is one never-ending guilty pleasure; a train-wreck if you will, and one that I simply can't won't look away from. It's pure comedic genius, and I am going to expand & exploit the shit out of it, just for you, starting now.

Before we dive into this budding relationship, a few formalities. My name is Amanda. I am a super-senior at the University of Texas at Austin studying Multimedia Journalism. I spent my first four years of college trying desperately to find my place; bouncing between a sorority, journos, moonlighting as a drag-rat and a study abroad stint in Barcelona, Spain. As a result of this extended soul searching, here I am--taking my last two required classes and blogging about mortifying, absurd and downright unacceptable guilty pleasures we women indulge in before I graduate in December. My parents are none too thrilled about this final grasp of a semester at their pocketbooks, but to that I say: look at this here blog I've created! I have made fire! Your money has not gone to waste!

But back to my aforementioned friend, and the inception of this entire operation. Every human being big or small, female or male partakes, from time to time, in worldly pleasures. None of us are exempt, that's for sure. Some of us, however, would prefer not to discuss said pleasures in the company of, say, potential mates, friends or anyone with a functioning brain. Why? Because many of the activities we indulge in are embarrassing, or even frowned upon by parts of society. Our pleasures are guilty, and we're all pleading the fifth.

That's the thing about guilty pleasures, though. They're so wrong they're right. We hate to love them, and when they don't apply, we LOVE to hate them. And while I'm well aware that our fellow earth-dwelling-but-extra-appendage-carrying counterparts pander in titillations equally disconcerting to those of women, there is something to be said about the contemporary fetishes that consume so many females today.

And so, friends, brace yourselves. I'm going to be finding and sharing the good, the bad and at least five kinds of ugly of some of the most outrageous guilty pleasures the women in my life regret to admit they love. And when I say ugly, I mean cupcake binges in the midst of a week-long juice-only diet.

Speaking of, its time to say adieu--I'm off to free nacho night with some of my main bitches. Ugh, and I'd been eating so healthy!

Whatever, my diet starts tomorrow.