My name is Mandey Brown. My friends call me Amanda. I like to draw, paint, write, read, and people-watch. I graduated from Nicholls State University in 2002 with a degree in Sociology. Then I went to welding school for fun. I am 5’6″ and I have red hair and green eyes. Sometimes my eyes are gray, but only when I am on public buses. I moved to Chapel Hill in 2005 and I bought a bar a few months ago. I’m trying to learn how to give a shit about money, because it’ll be important soon I’m sure.
I am constantly surrounded by tons of beautiful guys with terribly impressive talents. I do not date much at all. My favorite food is soft shell crab, and my least favorite food is mayonnaise. The other day I was on an outing with a guy named Jonny, and, upon learning that he was rendered unable to consume mayonnaise due to an egg allergy, I felt an overwhelming urge to kiss his untainted mouth right over my miso soup. I successfully fought it.
I love reality TV. I watched all of “Rock of Love, Season 1,” in two sittings. I accurately predicted the winner. I cried during “Undercover Boss,” because so many people’s lives are so hard and they don’t even complain. I’m obsessed with Snookie though I’ve never seen “Jersey Shore.” I am currently on Episode 8 of “The Hills.” I hate the facial hair on Lauren’s boyfriend. I hate the grainy cinematography. I hate the show, but as soon as I get home, I will finish out the season and yearn for the next one.
I wish I went horseback riding more often. I wish I’d learned to swim. I never go to the doctor, really. I’m terrified that I have cancer and I do not know it. I’ll never go find out. I feel fine. I have an equal love for both melted cheese and Panic! At The Disco.
I check Craigslist Missed Connections every day, but I no longer scan the posts for my name. Now, I look for my workplaces. I believe this is a sign that I am growing up. I want to know who is bonding over burritos or falling in love over Golden Tee. I want it all to stay lonely and perfect.
I am not lonely or perfect.
I keep telling myself those things, but they sort of cancel each other out.
I recently joined an online meetup group devoted to people who wanted more adventure out of life. When I realized it was actually a singles group devoted to the art of Speed-dating, I deleted my account. I immediately received a personal email from the group organizer begging me to reconsider my decision to leave. The last line from the Singles And Proud coordinator was a very solemn, desperate, “Please don’t go.” I laughed at the irony of this as I straightened my hair to go out for a solo night on the town. Then I stopped because I realized I was not entirely sure this was an example of irony. I was embarrassed in front of my own reflection in the mirror while I tried to recall the scene in “Reality Bites” where Ethan Hawke starts his phone conversation with, “Welcome to the winter of our discontent,” and then tries to explain irony to a slack-jawed Winona Ryder. Then I vowed to always answer the phone this way. Then I immediately forgot, and answered my next incoming call with, “Wuddup, Fucker?”
My mom understands me more than anyone. I have never needed anyone more than I need my dad. My brother impresses the shit out of me. I wish I could be my more beautiful, more carefree, more REAL younger sister for just one day. I love my nephew so much it physically pains me. I have never met anyone quite like Christopher Lee Plummer. One day I will find Nancy and grab her and shake her because I’ve never met anyone more beautiful in so many different ways than her, and sometimes I think she doubts that. I can read it in her status updates on Facebook, and I want to throw my laptop across the room. My laptop is so out of memory and so pissed at me that I’m pretty sure one day it will just give up and blow up and disappear into a little puff of smoke like the TVs in “Aqua Teen Hunger Force.” Secretly, I’d like to videotape that. In reality, though, I know I should just learn to work the external hard drive my dad got me for Christmas.
I collect art supplies. I am terrified to use them because then they will be gone, and I won’t have them anymore in case inspiration strikes sometime later. Therefore, my house is one giant messy cluttered horrible thrilling fire hazard of an art studio. Sometimes I eat an entire pint of ice cream in front of that show “Hoarders” just so I can feel a little better about myself. It works every time.
I play pool all the time and I’m only getting worse. I basically only drink whiskey on the rocks, and that hasn’t changed since college, but sometimes I wish they put little umbrellas in those kinds of drinks.
Lazy homeless people piss me off. I have only audibly farted in front of a human being twice in my adult life. I have four archenemies in this town, and only one of them actually knows who I am. My favorite joke is:
“What is red and not there?”
I smoke more cigarettes than I should. I don’t smoke enough weed, but that’s because my smoking buddy just got a really hot girlfriend and I don’t blame him for spending all his time with her instead. I would. I have amassed a considerable scarf collection and now I can match one to every outfit I concoct. I hate what I look like naked, but not in a self-conscious way. It’s hard to explain.
My favorite color is royal purple. I work very hard on a social commentary blog, but barely anyone reads it. I judge people by what shots they order. I speak fluent kitchen spanish. I own a life-sized cardboard cutout of Justin Beiber and an oversized fleece throw featuring his giant face, but I have no idea who he is or what his music sounds like.
It’s this last bit that made you uncertain about what sort of person I have become in the eleven years since we’ve hung out. I hope this letter sheds some light on who I am. I guess I’ll write you another one when my personality develops a little further. Until then, this’ll have to do.