Are you there, Laurie Domangue? It’s me, Mandey.

Dear Laurie.

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?”
“No tomatoes.”

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.





Filed under art junk, humor, life, random, relationships

8 responses to “Are you there, Laurie Domangue? It’s me, Mandey.

  1. Laurie

    There are so many responses that come to mind after reading your blog entry addressed to me. (I’d feel like I have now arrived, but something tells me that isn’t the case at all.)

    First and foremost, you know I consider you one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life. Therefore, I know that *you* know that it has been less than 11 years since the last time we hung out, since you accurately remember our graduation date, and we certainly hung out for at least a *little* while after graduation. (Just so you know, I thought, all these 8 1/2 years, that you’d graduated in English, and for that, I’m a failure.)

    Now that I’ve cleared that up, here are a few more responses:

    –That tomato joke is the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and I don’t for one second believe you find it funny.

    –I wish you would quit smoking, but you already knew that.

    –Have you ever considered Adderall?

    –When you say “lazy homeless people,” do you really mean, “lazy, homeless people,” or do you consider all homeless people lazy?

    –Since you never use your art supplies, does this mean you still have the art pencils I gave you for graduation? (I think they were pencils.) Those were intended for you to draw with, by the way.

    –I still think of you every time I hear “Datura”. Okay, that had nothing to do with your blog, but I just wanted you to know.

  2. -eleven has a better ring to it.
    -i actually think the joke is hilarious. no one else does.
    -i did quit smoking. i only have a few here and there. that’s still too many.
    -tried snorting adderall for a while. hated it.
    -i mean i don’t think all homeless people are lazy, but i only hate the lazy ones.
    -i threw in the art supply thing because i knew it would drive you crazy. i have used the watercolor pencils a lot, but not entirely, because i still like to dump them out on the floor and arrange them in different color groups. they are beautiful. i have been doing that for eight and a half years.

    love you, you bitch.

  3. Laurie

    OOh, ooh, I forgot to tell you. I have this document on my computer I (so cleverly) named “Quotes”. It’s 34 1/2 pages full of funny, inspiring, brilliant, or otherwise significant quotes by everyone from George Carlin to the guy who writes on my favorite celebrity gossip blog. You, darling bitch, have the distinction of being quoted more than anyone else in this document.

    Hope this makes your day a little bit brighter….

  4. Laurie

    As you requested:

    “All of us feel trivial and paper thin, tentative and waiting.”—Amanda Brown

    “I have a sorority girl to kill and this extra inspection is *really* cutting into my premeditation time.”—Amanda, about the Tri-Sigma girl who ran into her bar in NC and the fire marshal deciding to do his inspection the same night

    “Hold on, hold on. Dude, Laurie Domangue just said ‘shlong.’”—Amanda Brown

    “The 3Cups baristas’ hands were never idle, though their minds may have been.”—Amanda

    “No, you can help that you’re a bitch. You just don’t want to.”—Amanda Brown

    “God, you’re not going see that Twilight movie, are you?”—Amanda

    “I wasn’t really sleeping because I always wonder what people do when I’m asleep and sometimes I fake it to find out. I know he touches my hair a little sometimes too, which is adorable and I wish he’d do it more when I was awake.”—Amanda

  5. where’s that last one from?

  6. Laurie

    A blog entry

  7. Yes, I’m commenting again. It’s okay, you can approve me. I’m not bigtits with a garbled comment that reads like Joycian poetry.
    This blog makes me want to throw my laptop across the room. I can’t believe I just discovered it. I used to like mine alright till I read yours. DAMN YOU!!!!
    also, I want the link to your sociology blog.
    also, I am going to FORCE you to hang out with me. This week, if possible.
    Yours cordially,

  8. dj kutzu

    what’s crackling in my ear but the static selector with the vectors for nectars and bees and whatevas… the searchers found John Wayne but accosted the pain of growing into a neo-hippie-hipster with out gold fronts but if fronting as a mister…or should he say a mystery to the mysterio the comic flow is inevitable not searching for the respectable but the capable and muy intelligente para da gentleladies and gentlemen searching for their fit in the mix of lies, deceit, and concrete illusions and delusions of grand marnier splashing of the rocks and the rolls of time and space without disgrace but with a face that millions have seen but they don’t know whatcha mean…keeping it clean like a washing machine is not an option anymore…the shit has hit the floor and it is muy sucia however you spell it…dirty to the core…it cannot and will not be clean no more…the clarity and truth is right in front of you…look in the mirror and blame the one who stares back thinking they are the center of the universe when the guy on the street yells what up Sun…bun b raps to trees and leaves no one behind but the ether and believers of surface tension that soap must mention keeps the molecules together even though the weather is projected to be cloudy with a chance of meatless meatballs for the vegan guffaws and the soccer mom malls…must install the disk to take the risk of upgrading to another interation of complication that results in the expansion of wallet and no mind…can you buy the intelligence that Jay-Z has or the lyrical flow of BIG L…rest in peace sir beside the greats Biggie and Tupac who both been shot for being the shots heard around the worlds of the universe so you going to listen to myVerse kick her verse to the suckers that get hersed by a lyrical flow that know yet knows but will cuz 86 kills the 36 chambers of Shaolin Soccer like Stephen’s robotic voice that speeds us faster into the nano-technology expansion of the small hearted robots that dream of sheep and sheeple that follow the ways of tranducers of thought and lies and truths and thighs of spicy chicken wings…how much for one rib that Adam gave to become a man with a rib that resembles Weird Science lady robots that get caught in the web of websites dedicated to yesteryear that seems mad foggy and not clear to cybotron or megatron for that matter… the more you trust the more you can loose cuz the piper is coming …make sure you don’t snooze cuz your cousin is your cousin and not your lover cuz your in the south you don’t have to kiss your sister in the mouth…get a life and get a job because one day you going to have to kill the hog and bbq ain’t got the same soul as that ole time bbq rock and roll…rolling down the street…sipping whisky and juice without the juice and just on the rocks and rolls of the world’s worst love letter to love cause it does get better…keep your head up cause the suitors are a coming and knocking at your door cause Odysseus has left the building with Elvis and nevermore will you have to listen to his damn adventure with the Sound and the Fury of furry animals with long tails and long tales of how they became the man you want to be with…sans hairy lip…staches and life mix to form the sound you have always been looking for on Record Store Day because vinyl is what you need to cure the emptiness of your soul cavity or should it be your thoracic cavity that is so beautiful now…so so beautiful now…twice is nice with the Spice of course Paul Atredas is selling on Franklin to get the Franklins to woo the woman of his dreams within his dreams within his dreams just like the movie you have been incepted with the Jedi Mind trick that was scripted since you watched Alec Baldwin move in the Shadow of night wonder if David Copperfield was just a novel or a magician or both that are figments of your imagination but to call him not real is to deny David Blaine’s shelltoe shoes are the Special Edition Levitators that only he can get unless somebody drops from a height into boxes of cushions that a yard sale dweller would say…”HOW MUCH FOR ALL OF THE CUSHIONS?” if you can’t…fake it now make it later and say you did it from day one…because financial stability and maybe looks—>>>is what “they” look for in a future sound of roommate insipid jokes about finding himself through documentary film making clear the delima faced by million of Tom Cruises and Dustin Hoffmans especially the Mavricks that look up to fathers and never yell out the window of their car……”What up Sun?” Peace is the word that OM is to the substitute teacher named Yoda-San…not the best backpack. be eclipsed by Total’s fun run. Drum circles are so rhythmic that “Piano” or any melodic instrument is so welcome…back to Ma$e and ace in ya FACE….in ya FACE like the bass in Cindy’s trunk and i mean trunk not what your thinking ya trunk lovers with elephant style theaters… Julie is nice with painting and everything…big ups to the pull up kids…. peace and chicken grease powered vehicles…Mr. Bojangles laughed and then disappeared.

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