Pleased to meet you.

Since we’re both new here, I thought it would be nice for me to introduce myself. I think the best way to really know somebody is to know their deep, dark secrets. So anonymous reader, let’s dive in. Here is a list of my confessions. Many of my closest friends do not know these things about me, although I doubt they will be surprised. I probably shouldn’t put this on the internet, but it’s too late now, isn’t it? LET’S GO!

I have recently become obsessed with Enrique Iglesias.

This is a very, very new obsession. It started just earlier today, in fact. The day started as any other. I sat at my computer and opened Spotify. But on the side of the screen was an advertisement for Enrique Iglesias’s upcoming Houston Rodeo appearance. And there he was with his glorious smolder. It set off such a giggle fit that I forgot what I was even going to listen to. Then I realized I had never seen Enrique with any other expression besides a smolder.

Look at him!!





His entire existence was already hilarious to me, but this just topped it off. The biggest mistake I made was Google Imaging him. I literally laughed out loud at the results page. Throughout the day, even in the middle of conversations, I would think of it and the rows of pictures of him and his puckered lips and giggle, giggle, giggle all over again.

I imagined him being in different scenarios, unable to make any other facial expression.


Enrique, it’s your mother…She’s dying.



Hey, Enrique, can you spot me?



Do you, Enrique Iglesias, solemnly swear that you will support and defend the Constitution of the United States…


"You fucking know it"

I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that Enrique is the way he is considering it was this chesty man that provided the sperm that grew up into that smolder.

But at least he has various expressions. Julio Iglesias can:

Clap and smile

Point and smile

Pray and smile

And even wipe tears and smile

While Enrique just…

But I love him. I love Enrique Iglesias. I want to marry him. I want to take pictures of him and look at him smoldering all day. Not even out of romantic love. Just for my own sick amusement. Every year for his birthday, I’d have a cake made with his face printed on the icing. Our children would wear Enrique-face t-shirts. I would get a face tattoo of Enrique’s face.  And none of that would be creepy because we’d be married.

I pay too much attention to other people’s knees.

The worst was when I was in college, and everywhere I went, there were people walking to class in shorts. So many people. So many shorts. So many knees. They were everywhere! Bulgey ones, saggy ones, boney ones. SO MANY KNEES. And I started thinking about my own knees. Did I have weird knees? How would my knees be categorized? Are they fat knees? Scaley knees? Unusually pale knees? What about unusually tan knees? The few times I did wear shorts, I freaked out all day. Were other people noticing my knees? Did someone just snap a picture? What if I end up on the internet as some Weird-Kneed-College-Girl meme?

It was too much to bear. So I covered them. I wore pants even when it was 97 degrees outside for fear of exposing my knees to the world. Even when I kept them covered, I was comparing my knees to everyone else’s. It got so bad, other people started noticing me noticing their knees. My eyes locked on people’s knees as they walked by and I would look up and see them looking at me, clearly wondering why the hell I was staring down their knees. I would speed up with no explanation.

This is a personal issue I have yet to overcome. Please don’t judge my knees.

My archenemy is an elderly man at my local YMCA.

Oh my goodness, this man takes forever to do anything. I realize what a total asshole I am for thinking (and now saying) this by the way. This guy is tiny and fragile and at least 85 years old. But he’s so slow and uses all the same machines as I do. (Reader, please don’t dwell on the fact that I have the workout regimen of an 85 year old man). Whenever we see each other heading for the same machine, I intentionally avoid eye contact and don’t slow down. Because he’s incapable of speeding up, this means I win. And I’m such a dick and so impatient that I’m not willing to let him go first even once, and he haaaates me for it. He’ll pick a machine near me (facing me if he can) and glare at me until I’m done. He gets his revenge when he’s already at a machine that I want, and oh boy, does he take his sweet time. There are other people in the gym that I see frequently enough to give a little nod or a quick hello when we pass each other. But me and this man do not do these things. We don’t smile at each other. We don’t say hi. But we definitely recognize each other.

My relationship with this man genuinely bothers me. There are two groups of people in the world that I want to like me: children and old people. People my own age that don’t like me? I don’t give a shit. But if a kid doesn’t like me, I feel like it’s because they think I’m boring or mean or ugly. Kids especially do not like ugly people. If an old person doesn’t like me, I feel like they think I’m an idiot or a punky scumbag. In this case, I feel like a scumbag, and I don’t enjoy this feeling.

Someday, I do hope to remedy my relationship with this YMCA man. It’d be as easy as me not doing exactly what I want to do when I want to do it for once, but then that would mean I’m not doing exactly what I want to do when I want to do it, so I’m a bit torn right now.

I ran for class president in 4th grade. And lost. Horribly.

It still traumatizes me. I would have run for officer of StuCo in high school, but nope. Nope, nope. Too painful. Not doing it. I was the president of my student organization in college, but that wasn’t a real election. It was a bunch of guys sitting around trying to figure out who should do it and eventually I was like, “Hey, I can,” and they were like, “Okay, whatever,” and we went about our merry day. No. Trauma. Involved. 4th grade though? Worst experience of my life. HERE’S WHY.

I am pretty confident in most of my abilities. I’m probably too confident considering how often I get mocked by postal workers, cashiers, 2nd graders, and my father. Oddly enough, I am aware that I am overly confident but knowing this doesn’t make me any less confident. In 4th grade, I was even more confident. Not only that, I loved attention, being in front of people, talking, and feeling more important than everyone else. Running for president was perfect for me. The problem was that I wasn’t exactly the most popular girl in class. I think people liked me, and they seemed to think I was funny, but I was far too theatrical and way too goodie-goodie to be one of them so-called “cool” kids.  But one of the cool kids was running. I’ll call her Alicia Perez.

I was always extremely intimidated by Alicia. I didn’t really like her, but I still wanted her to think that I was cool. Everyone just looooved her. This girl did whatever she wanted and didn’t give a fuck. I could never be like that. Once when we were in the cafeteria waiting for the busses to pick us up after school, she started holding up her middle fingers. Right there in front of me with all the teachers around (but none of them saw her). When I freaked out and told her she was gonna get in trouuuble, all she said about it was, “It only means something bad because people make it mean something bad.” That’s some deep shit. Also, she used to go jogging in my neighborhood in a sports bra. I would like to emphasize: SHE WAS IN 4TH GRADE. While my best friend and I were racing bicycles as fast as we could downhill toward concrete basketball courts and digging up pet rocks, this girl was JOGGING. In a SPORTS BRA.  And all the teachers loved and adored her and everyone thought she was cool shit. This was my competition. If there were others running, whoops sry, don’t remember y’all.

I knew the competition was tough, so I campaigned hard. I made posters to put around the classroom, I met with my future constituency, I made terrible speeches. I was ready. I was ready for voting day. To prepare, my mom and I bought a pack of blank, rectangular stickers to act as campaign buttons. She and I decorated the front of each one in blue and red marker. “Vote for Amazing Amanda!” they said. “I’m going to traumatize you for life,” they probably whispered, only I didn’t hear.

When I got to school on voting day, I enthusiastically passed out my little campaign stickers while everyone was in the cubby area behind the classroom unpacking their backpacks. Some people refused them. Others ignored me. I was embarrassed. But then, one of my friends took a sticker from me and after that, others began to as well. I was satisfied. But it wasn’t long before they all turned on me: I don’t remember how, and I don’t remember why, but I’m pretty sure this is how Lord of the Flies type of shit starts. What I do remember is that as I knelt down to put my backpack into my cubby, one kid shouted “I’m not voting for Amaaaazing Amandaaaaa,” and the assault began.  One-by-one then two-by-two, then the whole mass began to stick my own campaign stickers all over my hair, arms, and back. When they were out of ammunition and satisfied with crushing my self-worth, they all ran away into the classroom, giggling, leaving me on the floor of the cubby room crying softly to myself.  Eventually I stood up, went to the bathroom, and cried loudly to myself.

Alicia won the election.

To this day, looking at cubbies still makes me a little sad.

And that’s it. That’s what you need to know about me. I hope we can still be friends.


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