Ladyfingers: Oh My, Corona

By : Sabrina Ambra
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By a show of recently washed hands, who is fucking exhausted of hearing/reading/saying the word “coronavirus?”

I think the only person who is slightly thankful for this shit show of a pandemic is Ozzy Osbourne, who has relinquished his title of “guy who bit off a bat’s head” and given it to its new, rightful owner: Patient Zero. Speaking of silver linings, with this influx of facemask purchases I’d like to imagine that there is a big percentage of folks finally getting a whiff of their stank-ass breath they had previously been sending directly into our nostrils. Mortgage rates are at lifetime lows, the stock market is plummeting, toilet paper is nowhere to be found. Take it all in, my friends, and then chase that with a dollop of hand sanitizer in your mouth or whatever.

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Ladyfingers: Stupid makes me sweat

By : Sabrina Ambra
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I walked into the bar; that’s nothing new, but it’s not a drinking problem until I’m 30, right? Don’t answer that. I sat down with full intention of writing and absolutely no idea what to write about. I feel like, more often than not, I use my crutch of “Here’s how the world sucks and here’s how to not get sucked into the suckiness.” I also feel like way more often than not, I can barely practice what I’ve preached.

For example, I left work P-I-S-S-E-D the day of this writing. It happens from time to time, as I’m sure it does for anyone else that, I don’t know, lives on this earth. I had been triggered, my mind wandering to a state of mild paranoia and self-consciousness. I become consumed by the thought of failure and I end up kicking my own ass for not knowing how to stick up for myself properly.

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Ladyfingers: I am 28, going on 29

By : Sabrina Ambra
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I’m a day late [on my deadline] and another year older [in exactly one week]. I have a lot to reflect on and even more to look forward to. First and foremost, I want to give a shout-out to my anxiety for being consistent AF this past year. With that, I have to give “mad props” (are we still using that phrase?) to my girlfriend for consistently dealing with the aforementioned anxiety and constantly reminding me of how incredibly lucky I am. Another shout-out goes to my cats, Luna and Celine-Dion, who continue to keep my heart warm and occasionally give it palpitations.

The last year of my twenties is on the horizon, my friends. Any advice? Because 28 was a bit of a doozy. Don’t get me wrong, it definitely had some solid highlights: I went to my 10-year high school reunion, I celebrated three years of doing “it” with the love of my life (“it” being love AND the sex,) and I performed a Beyonce song with three of my favorite human beings in front of over 1,000 other humans I’m not completely familiar with yet … just to name a few. On the other hand, I did lose some friends. They didn’t die, but they must be under the impression that I have. Alas, I have not, but the lesson hath been learned. The old friends are still invited to my funeral, of course. I’d like them to be pallbearers so they can let me down one last time.

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Ladyfingers: U-Haul Lesbians and other stereotypes

By : Sabrina Ambra
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I always knew Justin Bieber was a lesbian. Engaged after a couple months of dating, that son of a douche (let the record reflect that I’m referring to his father; please feel free to Google).

We are all aware, and have heard of at least one, of the lesbian stereotypes that are driven by everyone who isn’t a lesbian: one acts like the man in the relationship, lesbians always scissor, it’s just a phase, all lesbians hate men, etc. They’re comically untrue and I personally can find the humor in the stupidity more often than not. What baffles me, and what I’d like to go over with you here, are the stereotypes within the lesbian community that are totally true and kept alive by our lesbo-brethren. You guys, the “U-Haul Lesbian” has its own fucking Wikipedia page! Did you know it’s also referred to as “U-Haul Syndrome?!” You do now. We both do. Hence the Justin Bieber reference because we can agree he has a beautiful lady face. Now the small circle is completed and we can move forward.

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Ladyfingers: Curing the V-Day Blues

By : Sabrina Ambra
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There is something to be said when a holiday is commercially manufactured to emit feelings of love and adoration, yet has the capability of garnering feelings of the complete opposite.

It’s quite remarkable, especially for something that is not technically a public holiday in any country. That’s right, folks. Valentine’s Day is upon us and that means the pressure is on. The levels and layers of standards and expectations will either make you dizzy or have you reaching for the bottle and/or a vibrator. I’d say the majority of my past Valentine’s Day celebrations have been spent feeling shitty about myself and scoffing at anyone and everyone who wasn’t self-loathing with me. Can you blame the bitter? We didn’t bring this upon ourselves! That’s like having no prior weightlifting experience and showing up to a CrossFit competition. I can’t even confirm that CrossFit competitions actually exist because I am that far away from a life of fitness regimes, especially branded ones.

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Ladyfingers: Crazy cat lady

By : Sabrina Ambra
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In light of the recent news that Chicken Soup for the Soul Entertainment, Inc., is filing for IPO after being backed by Ashton Kutcher (oh, you didn’t hear?), I have decided to come up with a chicken noodle recipe of my own. Happiness, inspiration and hope are great and all, but gloom, reality and pessimism have the potential to be so much funnier.

Also, the thought of the Chicken Soup roundtable reading my story while huffin’ and puffin’, and/or dry-heaving makes me giggle like the adorable little troll I am. Plus, double-plus for the millennials, they would never let me say “fuck” in there. As far as I’m concerned, the most valuable lessons that life will teach you involve the word “fuck” in some form or another.  So with that, I present to you: Chicken Soup for the Asshole: You’ve Cat to be Kitten Me.  

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Ladyfingers: An ode to Jim Philips

By : Sabrina Ambra
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Mind if we take a drive down “Let Me Get Real With Ya” Boulevard real quick? Sometimes I find myself scrambling for topics when it’s time for me to write my next Ladyfingers entry (#giggidy).

I’m an expert in over analyzation, procrastination, and self-deprecation. Am I an artist? Debatable. Did I miss my deadline? Absolutely. However, instead of my “occasional” scrambling (I’m sorry; I love you; thank you for your patience), I’m a day late for a completely different reason. As a matter of fact, this time I had no doubt in what, or in this case, who I wanted to write about: Jim Philips.

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Ladyfingers: Write high, edit sober

By : Sabrina Ambra
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I’ve gotten into the habit of watching the news every weekday morning. I sit in a very un-ladylike position on the couch while I sip on shitty coffee and watch the daily disasters across the nation.

“Some doctors claim that a half-packet of Splenda may be rotting your insides at this very moment. How to prevent your impending death… Tonight at 6.”

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Ladyfingers: Everybody knows

By : Sabrina Ambra
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I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. A stiff, bullshit-free drink. The kind that touches your lips but you don’t know it’s anywhere near your body until it punches you from the inside. Reminds you that you’re alive. Because I swear to Jameson it feels like I’m in the middle of M. Nightshamanadingdong film-twist. I mean, this shit is really happening you guys. And I can’t just Into the Wild this bad boy and wish you all the best. I’m in it. We’re in it. But, I need a break.

We all need a break. There’s no quitting, but a breather might be nice. Remember the good ol’ days of Facebook? “Sabrina Ambra: is so bored OMG!!!” Shame on me, forever rolling my eyes at Tom’s 17th picture of a sunset. How dare I internally complain about Tina’s poll on who has better ice, 7-11 or Wawa? I’ll take an entire feed of Tyrell’s fish tank updates over what I scroll through on a daily basis. I know I can always delete the fucking app and pretend I’m above it, but until then can we talk about it?

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Ladyfingers: My hatchet list

By : Sabrina Ambra
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Sabrina Ambra

I wake-up (1) after pressing snooze on my fourth alarm for the fifth time in one hour (2). My alarm (3) goes off every .306 seconds and yet my body still manages to return to a deep sleep. Once I have gotten out of my bed (4) and untangled my feet (5) from the cord (6) attached to my vibrator, I contemplate a quick dial on the rotary phone (7).

I spend the walk to my bathroom wondering how the fuck my cat has managed to set up such an intricate obstacle course (8) during those few hours (9) I was sleeping. I dry-heave over my bathroom sink 10 for about (10) minutes while simultaneously taking the acid-reflux (11) medication my doctor (12) prescribed years ago.

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