corrective pencil marks

"Like a letter covered with corrective pencil marks, I have my defects. After all, I am not strong to begin with, and I believe even Hercules fainted once." -Lydia Davis, "Kafka Cooks Dinner"

Despite its morose namesake, mostly this blog is about how funny and charming I think I am, and whatever other word vomit I want to throw up on you.

If you're dying for it, click above to see more about me or to see a list of tags.

Basically, though: Amanda. 24. Montreal-born, New York-livin'. BA Psych from McGill. Graduate Diploma in Public Relations & Communications Management, also from McGill. I feel the need to bring up my schooling because people need to know for as long as I'm still paying the debt. (So: for the next 10 years, give or take.)

Also, I used to work as a comedy publicist but am currently working in celebrity news. Yikes, sorry about that.

Click the little green icons below to get at me elsewhere on the internet.
Recent Tweets @applesnpairs


I hate this video. Oh, do I ever hate this video. It’s not just that I have no love for the smug individuals peddling this tired Hallmark pabulum and it’s not just that I hate the “really makes u think” Facebook toads sharing this like it’s enlightenment gold. I hate the self-congratulatory culture that this was watered, fed and grown in. 

Here’s the thing: motherhood is hard. No one is doubting that. When is the last time you met an actual human monster who truly believed that mothers have it easy? Is anyone really spouting that belief? If so, they’re not who I take umbrage with; they’re beyond saving.

Here’s the real thing: motherhood doesn’t have to be as hard as it is for most women. It’s not some divine commandment that mothers should take up their cross, give up a huge chunk of their earning potential and resign themselves to be human snot rags, starved of sleep and mental stimulation. That’s not just the natural order of things and hey- good on you women for sticking it out all these centuries! You guys are the real heroes!

No. Motherhood is hard, but it’s harder than it needs to be because of men. When was the last time you heard anyone say “Fatherhood is a full time job, amirite?” Men are not expected to resign from their public lives once their genetic material creates a new person. No one asks a working father how he finds the time to balance it all. A kid is not a career. Money isn’t changing hands (I hope) when you have a kid. 

There are things that the powerful men in this society absolutely could do to make motherhood easier. Corporate society could be restructured so that women don’t immediately feel the proverbial elbows at their sides the second they start showing. Childcare could be more accessible to working mothers. Hell, it’s basically a human right in most other developed countries. An actually appropriate length for maternity AND paternity leave could be a standard for corporations to adhere to. Fathers could be expected to do more than duck into a soccer game or apply a spanking as need be. The onus does not need to be on the mother; men just put it there and thanked us for all the hard work we didn’t exactly agree to.

Men of the world: you do not just get to say “Motherhood is the hardest job in the world” with a shit-eating grin and then trot off, patting yourself on the back for throwing mothers the tiniest morsel of your concern. You created this mess. Acknowledgment without responsibility and without action is useless to me.

In the words of Jenna Maroney, go jump back up your mother.

Also. Jesus Cristo. If I was on my job hunt and I wasted my goddamn time prepping for a fake job so I could end up in some self-satisfied idiot’s web video, I would be next level pissed. 

(via stupidswampwitch)



Reminder that I was in the room for this and I swear to god I couldn’t look at his face directly. I had to look at him out of like, the corner of my eye even as I shook his hand. Like looking at the fucking sun.



Reminder that I was in the room for this and I swear to god I couldn’t look at his face directly. I had to look at him out of like, the corner of my eye even as I shook his hand. Like looking at the fucking sun.

(via devildoll)



seventeen magazine has officially lost it

Seventeen is slowly veering towards adopting the D.E.N.N.I.S system


I saw myself undressed in a three way mirror today. It is a miracle that I’m still alive.

Angry desserts! Iconic television! 


It’s never occurred to me to leave New York City.

I couldn’t. Every weekend is somebody’s birthday, every weekday is a glass of wine with a friend, a finally getting around to the gym, a trip to the store to find something useless I’ve needed for months. I don’t have the time. Sometimes, many times, I want to. I dream of places with open space, leg room, sunlight, and forgiveness.

I do not look at New York like a love and I do not look at New York like the way you look at things you blindly love. I look at New York City like something that could never love me back and more often than not, I am resentful of that. Sometimes I am jealous of the people who hold it tenderly, who look at it as a vast jungle of pizza slices and opportunity. Those people believe more strongly in baseball, in coffee, in bagels than I ever could. The distaste I feel leaves me no closer to leaving than yesterday. I tick off the reasons why not and finally, settle on “cue that skyline at sunset” and a place nearby that serves decent Bloody Marys.

New York City makes you angrier than you were before, specifically at people. People who innocently grab the subway pole near you, or take your seat, or bob their head to headphoned music, or walk slow, or block your entryway to the bodega freezer. You become immune to real things on the way to whiskey bars, you wish you could scream your name and have a flicker of recognition somewhere, and you know that you cannot. You walk past police tape on the way to grab a sandwich. You rent an apartment in areas where your presence forces people out of it. You hear stories of people getting shot, and they are a cough swept under the rug. Your only thoughts: the quickest subway route, the money in the bank, when will I go on vacation. You become a planet slowly orbiting in the middle of nowhere: if you lose your keys your friends are oh, so far away to help you. If you cry, nobody notices. You are responsible for keeping yourself in orbit, and all too many times you forget how. A weekend out in the suburbs or Massachusetts reminds you only of how you are out of place and how you dress funny and it still keeps you dreaming of someplace different. This place, you feel, might not exist.

In New York City, the elements are soot, fire, tap water. You buy expensive face cream to imitate what the sun and open air do. You believe love is in dark corners, you believe 4am is a decent time, you cannot leave your phone anywhere or it will be gone forever.

Some days, like yesterday, I pulled out Google Maps and it wasn’t working and this made me feel so critically alone I thought my chest would burst. Where would I go, I thought, and I had no answer so I just kept walking. I found where I was because I kept going, and in that moment, I remembered why I liked New York City so damn much. It kicks you, I think, and almost pats you on the back while it is doing so.

And maybe, sometimes in the spring, I love baseball a little more. I use “smear” in instructions to the bagel man. I walk on cobblestone streets and feel the sun on me and try something like a dosa or a street taco. I meet a friend who has become a room to me in the house I am trying to build. I feel greater successes, I wipe my tears, I keep going until I find the place I am looking for. New York City is not my lover but it is my toughest love. I want to leave, often, but suspect I never will.

Then again, here I am on the subway ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan, and the city skyline still feels like a miserable, beautiful beast I’m not sure I’ll ever be allowed to claim.

Legendary Wolf.

Y’all, this is iconic. How can anybody hate on Teen Wolf.


This is our house
This is our rules
And we can’t stop
And we won’t stop

Why did I post this as a link.

This is our house
This is our rules
And we can’t stop
And we won’t stop


I have no idea why but last night I watched the Honey Boo Boo show and they filled up a bucket with expired egg nog and then went bobbing for cold hot dogs. It had something to do with New Year’s? Later, the mom went to see a psychiatrist about her fear of mayonnaise. 

I know the show is trash and like who cares and everything and shame on me for watching it for more than 14 seconds but ever since, I feel broken. Like the last parts of myself that still yearn for others have finally been extinguished.  Why hold out hope for somebody understanding you when few people will ever try? Why even bother with decorum? Eat a waffle with your bare hand and pour the syrup straight into your mouth. Eat a waffle with your bare hand in public while not wearing a shirt. Get a tattoo of a moth. Fuck it all. There is no sky. The sun is an illusion. God doesn’t sleep under the ocean. There is a bucket of old egg nog filled with hot dogs and there are 3 girls competing to eat the hot dogs and that is all there really is. 

Took this pic with Julie Klausner at the Shorty Awards red carpet just to make a friend jelly. My only motivators in life are making people mad. (P.S. She’s the nicest and I love her.)

Having a great time ruining lives with my Gchat status today.
There is no purer joy on this earth than getting this song stuck in someone else’s head.

Having a great time ruining lives with my Gchat status today.

There is no purer joy on this earth than getting this song stuck in someone else’s head.

The comments section on my Game of Thrones recap.


It’s a bunch of nerds telling me how dumb I am and that I need to read the books.

I’m recapping the show you great lot of nerds, and yes, I have read the books. I mean god damn. Can’t any of y’all just enjoy the show? Shoot. 




who is on your team, captain?

#completely convinced marvel just finds the actual characters to play their parts

I will never not rebagel this incredible piece of method acting.

Let’s see, we got a beautiful, handsome, super-ripped, upstanding guy talking genuinely about his feelings on the left, and on the right we have a scruffy unenthused gently scowling sarcastic asshole with bags under his eyes you could move into.

Guy on the left, you seem okay, I’ll give you the friendly nod as I walk past you so I can yell DO ME ON IT JERKFACE to the guy on the right.

I think about this post a lot.