I have returned from Ecuador with nothing

but intentions to change the world. Silly?

Maybe. Impossible? Heck no. If I want to change

the world, why can’t I? Sure. I might just be just

one tiny 5ft person, but just look at Mother Theresa.

I spent the week living in poverty. And when I say

poverty, I mean it. We were the only house on the

street, and in theentire neighborhood, with running

water. The water was mainly for showering purposes.

The shower consisted of turning the water on and off

between rinsing and lathering. Interesting concept.

Ohh…and occasional stops of the water to wipe my

already very closed mouth off so the parasite water

didn’t some how sneak its way in.

We lived off about $1.60 a person each day.

Another interesting concept. We lived without

our cell phones, computers and TV’s. All of which

are some of my main essentials in life. But what a

nice feeling not having to worry about my email

or having a ton of missed calls. Very relaxing. Instead,

for a week, I lived the simple life.

(Quite different from Paris’ version.)

My eyes were opened to things that I was aware of,

but didn’t really understand. And truth is, I’ll, and

anyone currently reading this, never actually really

understand poverty. Because we will never really be

part of it. Thank gosh.But now that my eyes have

been opened to what is going on, I am ready, in

however freaking way possible to use what I learned,

and make a difference. Even if it’s simply reminding

my sister and friends to turn off their lights when

walking out of their rooms, or to turn the water off

in between brushing their teeth. It might be minor,

but it’s a start. And sometimes that is all it takes.

A minor start, to create something major. And I am up

for the challenge. So watch out world: because

Amanda is on the loose to do something extraordinary.

Today, I was minding my own business in the dining hall, waiting for some whole wheat pasta, (this was one of those rare occasions where they actually had any), when a boy from my creative writing class approached me with a fortune cookie. He only had half of it in his hand, the other half seemed to be in his mouth, and in mid-chew he mumbled a hello to me. I had always noticed him staring and smiling at me a lot in that class so I wasn’t too taken aback by him approaching me. But before we could get any of that awkward small talk underway, he looked down at his cookie, like it was a prop, and smiling, with pieces of cookie showing, said “Hey, let me open this so we can see what kinda fortune I got!”

Suddenly, I noticed his smile fade as he kept staring at his hand. Upon closer examination we both realized that there was no fortune inside. He started yelping, “OMG, Did I just eat it? I must have swallowed it!” He tried to salvage whatever fortune might have still been in his mouth by attempting to pull it out with his hands, but when he saw me blatantly watching this spectacle, I guess he realized there wouldn’t be any suave way to pull this off, so he said, “Actually I think I’ll just swallow it… yea I’ll just swallow the rest, that’ll be easier.”

Okay, so I was still standing there waiting for the pasta man to come over, and the situation was getting more uncomfortable by the minute… but I figured that after this kid just ate the meat and potatoes of his conversational prop, it really couldn’t get much worse. I was wrong.

He abandoned the remaining piece of fortune cookie and started trying to cut through a pizza pie to get a slice. The thing is, his hand couldn’t stop shaking and that, in combination with the shitty pizza cutting tools, made it practically impossible for him to cut out a slice. Eventually, magically, he retrieved the pizza and put it on his plate. Then, for some reason beyond my comprehension, he tipped the plate over and we both watched in horror as the pizza slipped out and fell on the floor.

So now, there’s him, there’s the pizza in the middle of us, and there’s me. We both just stared at it for a long time without saying anything.

He looked up after a few seconds, still glazed over with horror and burst out, “So this is what happens when I try to talk to you outside of class! I make an ass out of myself!”

In between my laughter I tried to convince him that it’s not that bad, I’ve seen worse.

I don’t think either of us believed it.

I finally got the attention of the pasta guy and as he handed me my plate, I was preparing to give this boy a friendly pat on the shoulder and a smile and walk away before he slipped on a banana peel or something. But before I had the chance to, one of his frat brothers approached him and yelled “Heeeeey, good seeing you downtown last night. Yo, we should get together more often and try to cop some ass, whadya think?” Before he answered him, my new friend just looked at me with a face of sheer desperation.

This is definitely going places. Friends and family: expect a wedding invitation in the very near future.

My roommate has told me on several occasions that I’d better speak at his funeral. I guess he fancies me the eloquent sort. He swears that his life has reached its twilight and that he needs a DUI or two to begin his descent into narcotics addiction or alcoholism or both. Both would be pretty glorious because then he could wake up in the morning to a tall glass of whiskey with a few grams of that blowcaine mixed in, just like Gregg Allman. Was that Gregg Allman? Maybe it was Stevie Ray Vaughan–It’s not important, Tim doesn’t like classic rock so he wouldn’t ever do it.

            In any case, the way Mark (which is what I’ll call him) sees it, he will be dead soon and wants me to say my piece during his funeral. But this is what I’m saying: what if I can’t make it to his funeral? There might be shit to do. I might have homework due the next day, and, worse, it would be very selfish of him to die during finals. And forget it if I have a hot date—if I have a hot date and then an exam a couple of days later then we’re gonna have to worry about me even showing up to the wake. Especially if he’s going to be wearing his septum piercing because I hate that shit and it’s gonna look even worse on his corpse.

            Mark, if you are reading this: make arrangements to have your septum piercing out before you die, because I can’t be expected to wear nice clothes and to look at that garbage. You might have to cover up the Of Montreal tattoo as well. Also, will your coffin walls be covered in boogers like your bedroom walls at home?

            This is my problem, then. It’s presumptuous to ask me to speak at a funeral if my attendance thereof isn’t a done deal in itself. What would I even say?

            “Mark didn’t masturbate, friends. Instead, he passionately humped his bed like a half-asleep thirteen year old forcing a wet dream—true story. This is probably the reason why his room smelled.

“Also, despite the fact that he was Korean, he was incredibly preoccupied with race and would inevitably mock you if you weren’t white or black. You see, he was used to white people and intimidated by black people. Mark, out of what he thought to be sheer selflessness, would even slide into what he considered an African-American accent whenever he ordered from the West Philly McDonalds. To witness such a thing was unspeakably uncomfortable.

“But, lo! Mark was unique, and uniqueness makes the world go ‘round.”

I suppose it would sound something like that. It might suck, but only because he sucks. Oh, I also forgot to mention: Mark—if you’re going to die before the lease is up then you need to find a replacement roommate. Otherwise I’ll tell people about those two DVDs buried in your stack of CD-Rs. You know, those movies that would be funny if you only had one— but, since you have two, it’s just plain unsettling?