cathartic diaries

Hey me, can we go on a break?

Getting sick of another human makes sense- they are not you. They do not always agree with you, they can look like shit and annoy you because of their unaestheticness and you can easily get terribly fed up with them. If you’re like me, this happens after like .03 seconds at most. But, getting sick of yourself- is a whole different story.

ME! STOP BEING SO….ME! Yep, that about sums it up. I am god damn sick of myself. I don’t want to hear me, feel me, or be around me. Because I suck. I can’t stand my jealousy and my verging split personality. When I was little I used to be so proud, “I’m a Gemini! That means I have two personalities! eeee!” what the fuck was I so excited about!? This sucks! I can’t tell you how jealous I am of those soft spoken calm people. And I know what you’re thinking: still water runs deep (is that even a saying?) but I don’t care- I want to be still- I am dying to be still- STILL ME!

This self- fed-upness usually happens on that week I’d like to call hell where I turn into a chocolate and hummus (sometimes together) crazed maniac. All I can picture in my head is an animal- an amandamal- “rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” she says- “satisfy me!” And if you dare, if your mouth dares to exude a wrong syllable- I will god damn kill you.

Now, there is that part of me that says, hey this is me- and hey, eff you. But the other part, the one that strives and dreams to be calm and soft- says, hey- chill the fuck out. 

I think maybe a nice integration of both parts can make me ok. At least for the hell week. When your boyfriend starts calling you by an imaginary name of the other half of your split personality- you know you have a problem. 

raged

so sick of being angry and having that angry feeling well up in my chest. it feels like angry ants rubbing up against my chest. my throat feels tight and i swear my body vibrates. this dramatic sensation seems like it would occur after something big happening- but no. it happens to me when an old lady walks too slowly in front of me in the train station. GOD WOMAN MOVE YA CANE! yes i am going to hell, but its okay because i know some people there. 

Shana Tovah

To celebrate the beginning of 2012 I played a Chinese YouTube video that counted down and after ‘1’ it showed explosive fireworks and a clock. I made boyfriend count down and french me at 12. I got pretty emotional about my lame countdown and created a conspiracy theory in my effed up mind that he was trying to sabotage my new years by closing my date and time preferences where I could see the exact seconds to midnight. This made him laugh. I am like a goy here with my new years obsession. They don’t even call it new years here in Israel, they preface new years with a word similar to goy. It might as well be called the goyim new years. But I may be exaggerating. 

Before the whole Chinese clock thing I ate 14lbs of meat and drank not enough red wine. It was lovely. I was planning on enduring 3 1/2 hours at least at this dingy homey pub- as we got there @9, like 90 year olds. However, to my complete shock and hysteria, at approximately 11:15 the bill was paid, I was too sober, and off to our orange couch we were. “I AM ONLY 23!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Hey, remember when we went out everyday of the week? Remember waking up drunk and getting drunk again 4 seconds after realizing we were still drunk? Remember THAT? How did we oldify? 

I’d like to blame the state of Israel for not being into any fun drunken excuse to get plastered and scream stupids to your parents- that is AMERICA’S JOB.  But it might be that settling gene in boyfriend, that home addiction and that “what do we need to go out for?” attitude that I feel creeping up on me.  When you’re single you fucking dream of the day when you won’t have to go out in prowl of a penis-only to end up having some frat boy try to moosh your tits while vomming on you- we picture red wine glasses clinking, a fat goose-down blanket and a warm body to rub up against. So when we get the nook we’ve been waiting for, it seems silly to complain about a missed throw-up session. There is always next year- Be’ezrat Hashem. 

housewife

I want to be bored. So bored that I will shop online for hours for dog clothes. I will mix and match and order dog-suits from Taiwan. I will make a frikkin day of it- that’s how bored I want to be. 

I want to carpool. I want to drive my Lexus GX 470 to pick up my kids, and their friends, and their friends friends, and maybe drop off their mams and cousins on the way too. I want my dressed dog to sit in the passenger seat; with her head out the window- she likes wind. 

I want to make it on time to my scheduled mani pedi, maybe I’ll even get there early and sneak in a quick foot massage. The valet guy can even misplace my car and take a while to move cars around to find it hidden behind an oversized minivan- I have time. 

I want to have the shmoopie thing that cleans the house like a robot. I will pick up my legs when it shall shmoop beneath me. My pedicure is drying anyway. 

I want to drop by at my husband’s business. I’m needed there sometimes to drop things off and pick things up, and the staff is terrified of me. They will hear my footsteps and line up like soldiers- “sheee’s heeeeerrreeee.”

I want to volunteer during my free time. I’d be something like a middle-aged dance teacher- a semi-flexible grown-up, leotard wearing, jazzy like, and totally flowy. The kids will love me, and I will treat the pretty ones like my very own. 

I haven’t decided yet on the cooking part. I may want to have learned how to cook- lasagnas and quiches and soups and pastries- or Rosa my helper (P.C for maid) will cook up international feasts on the daily. They will be fat but not fattening. I am fit.

I want to be bored, but not bored of my boredom. The money part is hyperbolized. I don’t mind driving a Suzuki swift and having Rosa only come twice a week. I’m not greedy. 

Artist

My friend asked me the other day about my blog. She wanted to know why everything I write about is pseudo depressing, negative, woe is me, and super cynical. The answer shot out of my mouth like those tiny yawn spit bubbles that used to stain many high school papers I wrote- “because artists cannot be happy” She obviously laughed, and I gave her the death stare. Well, duh. I don’t mean it in the “I think I’m an artist because I write in my diary like a 7 year old,” but because I am smart enough to know that people don’t enjoy reading about happy people. I mean it’s factual that were masochists- yes, you too, but more than that, no one enjoys reading about joyous in love people with great jobs, healthy lifestyles and optimistic eyes. We hate them. God they don’t suffer enough. MAKE THEM SUFFER! We also disbelieve in the existence of such a person, and we sure as hell can’t relate to them- so why the fuck would we care? - No one likes a bragger. If you’re not a recovering addict musician, an orphaned opera singer, or a suicidal writer- then you are not an artist. How could you possibly describe things in a touching way? “The new diamond ring I bought shines like a diamond!” See, zero creativity. However, “the knife which lies beside me shines a reflection of a man, a stranger to my eyes…” Sounds better. I know. 

I’m not saying that you can’t be totally happy and creative at the same time…And don’t get me wrong, you can hyperbolize the shit out your story- we want you to- just don’t tell us about good things…we don’t care about hearts…and if you write about hearts, please cry about them- we’ll like that. If this is completely of no comprehension to you then please, write a musical. People like those. 

ugly fat winter

Something needs to be done about winter. Something definitely needs to be done about my ever-blackening hair, my see-through face, my hairy brows, and fat stomach. Something needs to be done. PEOPLE! This cannot be! I have hit rock bottom- my soft hands and dreamy blue eyes are no longer saving the day- it’s action time. Today I will go to Moran Eyebrows, she will thread my bushii (plural for many a bush) and wax my peach fuzz of a stache, and tomorrow I will go to the tanning bed, though it has yet to work, I’m hoping my 5th visit will entice some bronze. After lying naked on a bed of glass that so many gross bodies laid on, I will go home and pamper myself with a chicken salad topped with carb-free dressing. WHEN I SAY THIS IS IT, I MEAN THIS IS GOD DAMN IT! I will call Hilik, my hipster hairdresser who doesn’t believe in dead ends (unless they’re ugly), and make him prettify my head. I will NOT be adventurous, and the words, “go crazy” will NOT exit my dry wintered lips. hopefully I will be able to convince him to give me some summer highlights, as he refuses to, because he is hipster and also because he seems to think my hair is blonde, and for some reason laughs when I tell him that in the wintertime it’s black. God, what an idiot.

My next task will be to convince my boyfriend to cooperate. PLEASE don’t force me to eat a 330gram hamburger with cheese and fried onion, or a pita dipped in olive oil and zatar. PLEASE understand that a beer belly isn’t acceptable on me, nor can it be disguised as muscle mass. DON’T buy 6 Twix bars because they were on sale, because I will eat 6 TWIX BARS. Some support please Mr. Boyfriend, and please stop loving me so unconditionally, for your sake.  

clothing mitzvah

I’d like to talk about this shirt I have. I call it the heart shirt since it’s entirely made up of different colored hearts -, it’s also a turtleneck (hello 80s) and its flowy, frumpy and fattening. I HAVE NO IDEA why I bought this shirt. I wonder what state of mind I was in when I said, “Hey I must buy the ugliest shirt in the world!!! I want to look fatter too! Yippee!” FML. I might be a little hard on myself though, we all make fashion mistakes and there is always the occasional styling mishap- no one is perfect god damnit! My head shaking came in when I, Amanda Nicole Hirsch, decided to wear this shirt 3 days ago. I assume I was in a perfectly normal state of mind. Going to my 9-5 job, and feeling pretty sane I guess. So why, god why did I look at my entire closet (I have no excuse of “laundry day” since I barely wash my things- unless they reek of course) and pick the heart shirt? While looking at my reflection on the train and throwing up in my purse, I pondered this and came to the conclusion that I am an equal opportunist! Go me! I am clothing rights activist- “leave no shirt behind!” (I am apparently also in Black Hawk Down). I, subconsciously of course, felt bad for the shirt. It just lays there, caged in wood barriers, all flumpy and floompy, amongst the other shirts who get to go out and experience life- let’s not mention the fact that they get a hell of a rollercoaster waterpark ride when they get smelly. They probably show off, and poor heart shirt remains silent. She’s had no experiences, has never gotten on the roller-coaster, and barely knows me- she reminisces of the days in Macy’s where she was appreciated, looked at, and even taken for short strolls. She fucking hates me- so being the kind of person who needs everyone to like me- I do her a favor here and there and i take her out for some fresh air, while I… avoid mirrors. 

If you read this and think, “wow, this chick is superficial” then please, I beg you, read this again and think of that fugly shirt you own…and while you’re at it…do it a favor…a mitzvah to the clothing world. 

Foreign Exchange

I’ve had the dream of many baby lady writers, the dream of being some fancy shmancy executive/senior editor at Vogue or “Runway”, click click clicking my heels through Grand Central station, or not because I would have a car…Don’t you love those people who say, “I have a car”- those people that say “I have  a caaaar” in such a way, that you just know they don’t mean that they drive a 1988 Ford Focus, but  that they have a chauffeur, one that wears a hat and says “howdy mam, where to today?” Anyway, I would have one of those…but I would make him call me Miss because I am twenty fucking three years old  thank you very much (you don’t age in dreams-duh). Minutes later I would arrive at my 99th floor corner office made completely out of glass. I would throw my Berken on my assistant’s desk, just like Miranda does from; “The Devil Wears Prada”, and sip away at my macchiato that is somehow perfectly hot and just waiting to be sucked down. I would go into details of what I would be doing on a daily basis, but I find that information a bit indulgent. We’ll stick to the superficial. 

My west village townhouse is a given, so is my 13 door refrigerator, theatre room, and perfect view of the beach…. (Shut up!)

As I stand on my imaginary wrap around porch drinking a glass of champagne out of my crystal (Swarovski only) glass, I am sitting at my desk in the Middle East- ok in Israel but I dramatize- writing about foreign exchange. So I don’t have a “caaaar,”  I drink instant coffee and ride alongside sweaty fat men and/or heavily armed soldiers whose guns and grenades often point straight at me leaving me to sit in constant paranoia of a very sudden, instant death.  So I am nothing like Miranda, though I do attempt to dress like a fashion runway model-but I digress… A dream is a dream and will be a dream until we live in a utopian world where everything always works out perfectly. I will write about stocks, I will make indices sound punchy, and I will assure that Indian investors will have something to comment on our growing Facebook page. I will train it home, hoping to get a seat next to a regular citizen of normal stature and smell in great anticipation of seeing the love of my life- the one whom for I am not yet Miranda, I am his Amanda…His resident of small Israel Amanda…His Foreign Exchange content writer- Amanda….blah blah blah Amanda…

why old pictures are the devil

When my boyfriend saw a picture of me looking like the tannest blondest hottest chick alive, with my perfect half-tit poking out of my shirt rim, and my eyes glancing to the side like I have something to look at, he said, “wow, mama, you’re the hottest thing in the world there.” Why he had to add the “there’” beats me. Of course, I couldn’t let that one go. There? What about now? I ask this with an extra ten pounds on me since this picture was taking (at least), and skin you can see through. My comforting boyfriend undoubtedly answers, “now too, but I’m saying…there, like…too!” RIIIIIIIGHT. I told him that with a few beach visits and the continuation of my new obsession of four days -the Atkins diet- I should be very well on track to looking like sexy me. He got way too excited for my taste- “Really mama, really?? Like that??” I was under the naive impression that he is so deeply enamored with me, that he’s simply blind to the minor changes I’ve undergone since we’ve started dating. You’d think that since he shoves a hotdog bagget sandwich down my throat 3 times a week, he’d have zero to negative authority to even comment on my weight, diet, looks, or past hotness.

But old pictures don’t end with old hot pictures. No, no, because let me tell you that old fat pictures, are much much worse. Now, I’m not talking about facebook pictures, because I am not an idiot, and I detag any and every picture that has a twinkle of a fat arm, double chin, oversized knee, or dangly elbow skin-but unfortunately I am too sentimental to let go of some grotesque pictures on my computer- because let’s be honest- sometimes it’s entirely comforting to have looked fatter. But when you’re significant other sees these, you better be sure what runs through his mind: “OHMG SHE WAS SO FAT, WILL SHE GET LIKE THAT AGAIN?” or “THAT’S WHY SHE HAS THOSE STRETCH MARKS”….(“not because she has sensitive skin, like she said…”). If too many pictures like these come up, he might think your current present state of being (nicely voluptuous) is entirely temporary- and that soon enough, you’ll balloon up and look disgusting.

Don’t get discouraged. If he loves you, he’ll most likely love you in any way shape or form- if he’s not a shallow anus. But still. Knowing Monica Geller from Friends used to be obese obviously detracts from her petite hotness. It’s superficially supreme to have always been hot. But what can we do that food tastes so good, and doing nothing is the best activity out there…

like me.

My entire life I’ve wondered about one very mind boggling question—why the hell do people like me?

Let me start off by confessing that I would hate me. I would even despise me. I am a self-centered biotch. I barely listen to what people say, and most conversations with me, revolve around…me.  I truly believe that if I wasn’t a cynical sarcastic cunt, that knows how to poke fun at herself- I would be a much hated human. 

Even though I walk around like I own shit, people find it heart-warming. “Good for her,” they think.  Some observant folk may find me full of myself- but for some reason, it doesn’t seem to bother them that I’m one of those people.…

1. That say, “I know, right?!” to a compliment, instead of thank you.

2. That prefers dicks over chicks.

3. That cannot be happy for you.

4. That needs to be better than you.

5. that is prettier than you

6. That will tell you your new haircut is ugly- even though there’s nothing you can do about it at this point.

7. That will make eyes at your boyfriend just to win my favorite game of “get that girl’s dude to check me out”

8. That will relate every story to my own life

9. That will sabotage your diet

10. Re 9: and will start my own starvation marathon to shed the pounds before you do. 

With that, I know there are reasons that people find me charming, or more like non-threatening:

1. I am not skinny.

2. I get things stuck in my teeth

3. I talk about shit

4. I shit with the door open when you’re at my house

5. I am a fun drunk

6. You like to be controlled

7. I can be a ditsy blonde

8. I make hilarious fat jokes

9. I can fake compliment like it’s my job

10. You like pretty people. 

My mother would cry if she saw this list. In her mind I am the epitome of perfection (aside from that never-dissapearing gut). I am the peoplest people person, the funniest chick in town with a great head on her shoulders and loads of what to offer the world. This might be true, yet it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a bitch.