Weakness (Shoop)

I've never passed a shoe sale marked more than 50% off, and I've never met a mixture of chocolate and mint that I didn't like. Left ten minutes without lip balm I begin complain. Bitterly. I want to taste the local cuisine in every locale, and I don't mind dragging my travel companions off their sore heels to find it. I want, then, to be coached through recreating those exotic samplings and I want to take it out on my kitchen when I fail as a basic chef. Fuck you, beignets. But these are surface fixations. If I'm honest...

"Here I go, here I go, here I go again. Girls, what's my weakness?"

Men.

Coming from a proud line of feminists, lesbians, single mothers, and lonely uggos, I realize what a disgrace I have become. But if women are the fair sex that makes menfolk the brutes, and I have a soft spot the size of Marilyn Monroe's vaginal canal for big dumb beasts (see also: any posts on dogs). Don't worry, this isn't an all-inclusive offer on penis-holders. Just like bridges in Minneapolis, I'm weak in certain spots.

I have been late for work because I ride the train purposely past my stop, eye-stalking businessmen as they fidget up and down the aisles. It would be against this woman's personal religion to miss the spectacle of a handsome brute as he either puts on or takes off a good tie, obviously too safari-souled to wear such a (beautiful, designer, Armani?) noose minutes past the prescribed duration. I walk blocks out of my way to follow a delicious cologne and a broad back across Manhattan in high commuter traffic.

Because I lie often and without allegiance, helpless honesty strips me down to the marrow. Country boys only have to confide that they "just can't lie" to earn my unflagging devotion, my rabid protection, my sudden and inexplicable desire to teach them the ways of dishonesty (therefore destroying what is it I love about them). Even dishonesty in men seems so...remedial class. Women invented lying about witchcraft, lying about pregnancy, even lying about orgasms. Men lie to get women into bed, and if those women are over the age of 14, they can see it coming about four drinks away. But how cute is it? No, I know; I'm sick.

If there's a bespectacled fellow with a beard and a book in a four-mile vicinity, you will soon find me at the nearest armchair playing mathematician with mirror angles and half-slash lashes. An accent cultured in the United Kingdom turns my own New Yorker snort into a purr. And don't even get me started on the sort of man who's had to order refills for his passport pages.

Listen, I can't bring myself to date men with brown eyes. It's a (bad) daddy thing. But I have a deep weakness for imp-green eyes, for hazels that fade gray-green at the edges, for blue that sunburst around grass green like summer in a black hole. This fixation does not, I insist, stem from four years of chasing a jungle-eyed ghost through the fog, but rather because green eyes are inarguably (and cruelly) the prettiest when they cry.

Being both a pacifist and a laze, it surprises me just as deeply as it does you that my pelvis tugs toward soldiers and sportsmen; that I'll argue all night over the ethics of warfare in hopes that some battlefield could be recreated in bedrooms further down the road. You can keep your models and musicians, but if there's another guerrilla war, send me in. I can spot a man in camo print two hundred clicks off.

Now you know my kryptonite. Luckily the internet journaling world is only 5% men or else I might have been distracted from writing this very entry. Miss you.

Comments

[Liz]

God, that's good.

[jamelah]

I just want to say that this is really good. That is all.

[kelsi]

jesus, amanda, fantastic. and painful. and seriously, even though i could actually do this one, this was probably the most painful thing you've ever proposed to us.
but awesome. and knowing about your kryptonite just makes you more fantastic.

[Melissa]

bravo!

makes me rethink the down&dirty flirting with the 27 yr old ...

[Polly]

Will you do my writing for me?

Do you know what I want: to watch a platoon of Marines run. I used to see this particular site almost every weekday of my life and it never got old. Those clingy beige t-shirts, tiny green running shorts, and everything the didn't cover.

Sigh.

Run, marines, run.

[erin olivia]

amanda,
haha, honestly i have no idea how i found you...i spend 8+ hours a day online wasting my life away at work, so probably some random collection of click throughs on other mildy amusing blogs. but i stumbled upon you a few months back and i love it. glad i made you happy at your desk with my top five. thanks for entertaining me with stories of foreign lands...i am jealous of your gumption.
erin

[little white liar]

Liz, Jamelah, Kelsi: Thanks for loving me even at my sluttiest. My readers are pretty much the best (and the luckiest, considering you can't pass diseases via blogging).

Melissa: Like I said to my 40-year-old manicurist this weekend - "younger than me" is the perfect age! Young dumb and full of cum - how God intended them.

Polly: So like, is your old job available now, or...?

Erin: Well, welcome!

[toby]

Most boxes ticked but my eyes are brown, so I reckon we saved a lot of wasted time! And my current lifestyle is way too degenerate for such a classy broad.

Ok, that's a lie. My eyes are tropical rainforests in the monsoon season...

Nah, kiddin' again! They're winter green fields splashed with mud, rusted blood and beer.

[Polly]

Oh Amanda. Watching Marines run wasn't a job, it was a lifelong calling.