As you all know, I like to delve into various writing styles. I write in everything from technical non-fiction, to pulp novels to erotica. But there is one area I have never tried out before…until now.
If we’ve learned anything from Stephenie Meyer or Jaime McGuire, writing young adult romance is a fucking goldmine! If they can do it, why can’t I?
And why can’t you for that matter? As I was researching into this, I found many of the following common themes that I am going to use to make me a quadrillionaire.
So here are my tips for writing a shitty young adult novel that will have readers banging down your door for more. Then, you can cash in again by writing the same story from the heroes point of view.
Essa’s Tips for Writing a Shitty Young Adult Novel
- Your heroine must be beautiful, but she must have no idea that she’s beautiful To underline this lack of confidence, she should regularly trip over her own feet and she must dress like a bag lady…right up until her gay BFF gives her a makeover.
- She must have a gay BFF. Gay BFFs have three benefits. Number one, they show other girls how trendy we are. Number two, they show boys that other boys like us. Number three, those straight boys won’t be intimidated because our gay BFF isn’t competition. Because god forbid a chick be friends with a guy who is straight.
- The boy must qualify as a bad boy, but he also must be redeemable. See, in real life, these high school bad boys with the tattoos and the muscles spend all their time being tough and cool, instead of getting good grades and applying for colleges. After high school, these bad boys trade in their motorcycles for jobs pumping gas and peddling small amounts of weed to local teenagers. At night, they become ‘that creepy old dude’ at the high school kid’s parties. But in the novel world, the bad boy is secretly a genius who only needed the love of a good woman to set him on the right track.
- All the other girls in your book, aside from the kooky, weirdly overprotective best friend, are sluts and bitches who want nothing more than the leading man. Actually, every single woman on the planet should be obsessed with the leading man, even the lesbians. Because lesbians don’t exist in the young adult world. Only sluts, bitches and the kooky best friend exist.
- Never underestimate the power of exclamation points! Exclamation points make everything more exciting! Why describe how exciting something is when you can just phone it in with punctuation!
- Every man on the planet who isn’t the leading man is a nefarious, evil stalker who will eventually attempt to rape the female lead…if she hasn’t been raped already. Because there is nothing more romantic than a graphic attempted rape scene in novel aimed at young adults.
- The hero must commit several felonies to prove his love for the heroine, up to and including; beating the shit out of any guy who dares talk to the heroine, kidnapping the heroine, breaking into her house or repeatedly stalking her. These same crimes would usually be creepy if an ugly guy did it, but the hero gets away with it because he’s hot.
- When in doubt, also make the bad boy a vampire or werewolf…fuck it, make him a werewolf/vampire/pirate.
All right people, I’ve got to get to work on this. I’m estimating I can churn out one book like this a week for the foreseeable future. After that, all there is left to do is count my money.
Today, something that most people call inspiring kind of set me off. Specifically, it’s the new Cover Girl, “Girls Can” campaign.
There are so many things I hate. I hate peas and cold weather. I hate fan fiction. I hate Kirk Cameron, the Taliban and people who clap when the plane lands.
But above all, I hate being patronized.
In case you haven’t seen this ‘inspiring’ new gem, it features a group of female celebrities, who normally, I don’t hate. These ladies spend the entire commercial talking about how hard it is to reach the top as a woman in music, business, and a whole host of other industries that are apparently allergic to vaginas.
This is all done for a campaign for a make-up company.
Now look, I’m not one of those chicks who hates make-up. I rarely wear it, because I can’t find a color scheme that matches my sweatpants, but I don’t hate it.
What I hate is that an industry that is completely dependent on making women feel like they’re not good enough unless they’re pretty has the balls to jump on the “girl power” train. What I hate is that a company that claims to be so women focused has a board of directors that’s 60% male.
I hate being patronized and I had the phrase ‘girl power’ or anything to do with ‘empowering woman’ because I find it entirely patronizing.
Nothing makes me want to smack a chick in the chops more than the phrase “girl power.” It’s usually spewed out after a bunch of shots of Jose Cuervo, after said girl just got dumped and has decided to “give up on men” and “just focus on me for awhile”.
Even though I give an agreeable smile and down my own shot, I get annoyed. Why?
Ladies, ask yourself this? Has a man ever done this? Has any dude you’ve even known shouted out ‘boy power” as he downs a shot and said that he didn’t care about picking up, he just wants to focus on himself? No?
Hold on while I recover from my shock.
Ladies, straight up; it’s patronizing. While you’re shrieking out ‘girl power’ you’re making it clear that you had no power of your own to begin with. When you say, “I’m just gonna focus on me,” you’re indicating that you weren’t before. And I know, two months from now, no matter how much ‘focusing on you’ you’re trying to do, you’ll have some unemployed douche bag living on your couch because you’re afraid of dying alone.
Because you’re not powerful. You’re just using a phrase that rich white dudes came up with to sell lipstick.
People who are actually powerful never have to tell others that they’re powerful. It’s obvious from their actions. When woman who are powerful say “I succeeded despite the fact that I’m a woman,” they’re not taking a stand for feminism. They’re simply making it sound like there’s something wrong with being a woman.
And when they start saying dumb shit like ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can!’ it sounds a lot to me like of case of protesting too much. It’s patronizing.
The fact is, some girls can’t. Just like boys, some girls are stupid and lack talent and would have never made it to begin with. It’s not because they’re girls. It’s just because they suck.
And yelling ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can’ all night isn’t going to change that, no matter how many celebrities you stick in your ads.
In a few minutes, I’m going to go outside, light something on fire and shoot my gun up into the air. No, not because it’s 4th of July. Mainly, because it’s Friday and I’ve been day drinking since noon.
I like being American. I like being American because America is me. America is a good looking, aggressive, capitalist loving, loud-mouthed country that loves talking shit. It frequently gets into fights for no reason, and gets itself involved in fights that are none of its business. It tells others what to do, despite that fact that it’s a broke, substance abusing mess. It never admits it’s wrong and when something makes it really mad, it blows something up.
I’m pretty sure that is how most of my friends would describe me. I’m super glad that I was lucky enough to be born in a country that I have so much in common with.
But I’m not ‘proud to be an American.” To me, being proud actually indicates you did something to earn that pride. Being born an American was a lucky accident of my birth. I didn’t earn being an American. It was given to me by the benevolent flying spaghetti monster. For that I’m grateful.
But I’m not proud.
I’m proud of my novels. I’m proud of the time I served in the military. Hell, I’m proud of the fact that I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. I earned those things because I worked for them, so I am proud of them.
I wouldn’t say that I’m proud to be white or proud to be blond. Those were genetics. I had nothing to do with that. Am I glad? Hell yeah! I can’t dance and I could never get one of those complicated handshakes down. I really wouldn’t be able to pull off being black and I’m not sexy enough to be Hispanic. So I’m glad to be white, but I’m not proud to be white.
And I’m not proud to be an American.
Ironically, the people who actually deserve the right to claim they are proud to be Americans are the ones who get bitched at the most for being here in the first place.
The people that crawl through the desert in the dead of night to get past the border, or pay their life savings to arrive in someone’s trunk should be proud. The people that come here on makeshift life rafts, paddling their way across an ocean that is more likely to kill them than help them deserve to be proud. The people who come here seeking asylum because they spoke out against their own country’s corruption and crimes against humanity deserve to be proud. The people who have to study for and take a citizenship test that most of us born-and-bred Americans couldn’t pass deserve to be proud.
Those people wanted to be here enough to risk their lives for it. They faced imprisonment for it and they gave up everything for it, including their wealth and families. Who does that remind me of?
Oh yeah, these guys.
Yes, I’m pro-immigration and pro-open borders, and it’s not just because of my love of Hispanic pool boys. It’s because if someone cares enough to come here, whatever the risk, I think they deserve to be here.
“E pluribus Unum” isn’t just some silly Latin phrase on our money. It means something. Specifically, it means “out of many, one.”
It was the original endorsement for immigration and it was made when this country first started, when people actually had to struggle and fight to be here and to make this our country….and also kill a fuckload of Native Americans, but I’m going to go ahead and gloss over that one in honor of the holiday.
Those people were proud Americans and the people that fight to be here are proud Americans.
But I’m not a proud American. I am a very lucky girl who was born 3 hours south of the Canadian border. I could have just as easily been Canadian…and I’m a fuckload of glad I wasn’t. I’m far too rude to be Canadian.
So happy 4th, from one glad American, who was lucky enough to be born in a country arrogant enough to call itself the greatest nation on earth. America, we were made for each other.
Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go indiscriminately fire some bullets into the sky and blow up a trash can with a cherry bomb.
As you know, I frequent a little place called “Gas Station” for purchasing my addiction necessary items; i.e. cigarettes and beer. No, I’m not making the name up or changing it. This place is actually just called “Gas Station.”
I can respect that kind of marketing transparency.
What I can’t respect is you, new cashier. You have started playing the obnoxious dating game that I hate so much, despite the fact that I want nothing more to do with you than beer and cigarette purchases.
Let me give you the dating game in four stages, in case it’s unclear.
- Outright flirting “gee, your eyes are blue.” “I like your hair like that.”
- Passive aggressive flirting. “You’d look prettier in orange.” “Why don’t you leave your hair down?”
- Playing hard to get. “Oh, I can’t wait on you now. I’m busy answering my fucking cell phone.”
- Outright hostility. “Do you need to drink this much beer?” “Despite the fact that I see you 14 times a day, I need to see some ID.”
Apparently, new cashier, you have decided we’re in some type of relationship because I go to your store on a regular basis. I have been put through all of the obnoxious stages of flirting, from outright flirting, to outright hostility, despite the fact that I have no interest in you whatsoever.
Look at me. I show up at your fucking store in sweatpants with hair that hasn’t been brushed in a week and I bitch about period cramps as I slip an economy pack of tampons onto your register. I am making no effort to impress you. This is not part of the mating ritual. You are supposed to be my safe zone. I shouldn’t have to deal with your fucking mind games because I never promised you anything but the $4.23 a day it costs to support my nicotine addiction.
But you still manage to get offended by me refusing to date you. Really, you should be thankful. I’m a terrible human being. But you need to stop being offended, because you aren’t my type.
Let’s make this crystal clear. In order to even the playing field, because I’m Barbie with a brain, you must be one of two things to date me.
- You must be much better looking than me.
- You must be smarter than me.
I meet the guys I date by stumbling into shirtless models outside of Abercrombie and Finch, or by trolling Mensa meetings. I have never, and will probably never, pick up a cashier at the convenience store because he’s holding my beer and cigarettes hostage. I’m better looking than you (even on a sweatpants day). I guarantee I’m smarter than you, because right off the top off my head I can think of 11 different alternatives to working at a convenience store.
So stop with the bullshit. We’re not soul mates; we never even dated. I barely know you and I don’t give a shit about you.
I know you think that you have all the power, because you stand behind the register, but you don’t. There are at least 34 different convenience stores I could go to in a four block radius. I used to choose yours, because I used to enjoy it. Then they hired you, and they ruined it.
I’m not usually the kind of chick who makes complaints; I’m far too lazy to do that. But I’m seriously thinking about having your ass fired. Because when you think about it, who is management going to side with?
The totally replaceable dude they’re paying $6.00 an hour to, who makes his customers wait while he makes imaginary calls on his cell phone?
Or are they going to side with me, the chick whose beer and cigarette purchases are putting their kids through college? Trust me bro, I push it, you’ll be out of there faster than I can say namastē.
Save your novice college games for the girls who will actually play them and get me my beer and cigarettes without wasting my fucking time. I’m not at Gas Station to flirt. I am here to buy what I need to buy and move the fuck on. You want to play games, know that my game playing skills come in at the advanced level. Expect some slashed tires.
So I’ve been sucked into a soap opera. Yes, I know they are filled with clichés, plot holes and one dimensional characters, but I am a sucker for a good story and soap operas tend to deliver.
My current obsession is Hollyoaks. Also, if any of you motherfuckers reveal who killed Fraser Black in the comments, I will hunt you down and murder you.
Living in a soap opera world is much more difficult to navigate than living in reality. You have amnesia, who-dunnits, evil twins and people coming back to life several times over before they actually die.
Which is why I have decided to write my own soap opera, casting myself as the lead detective.
Chantilly Flats – An Essa Alroc Production
Detective Essa Alroc wakes in the early morning as her phone starts to ring. Muttering, she checks the display; Chantilly Flats Police Department.
Essa: <sits up in bed and her hair is absolutely perfect, despite the fact that she’s been sleeping for 8 hours>. This is the last thing I need after finding out that my bi-sexual husband has been having an affair with my gardener Filipe, who also might be my secret love child that I gave up for adoption. <She answers the phone> Detective Alroc here.
Officer Eric Mendelson: Sorry to wake you up so early boss. But we got a murder on our hands. Jackson Bedford has gone missing and all clues point to him being dead.
Essa: <Rolls her eyes> Do you have an actual body?
Officer Eric Mendelson: Well, no but there is a lot of blood in his car, and we found it abandoned in the woods. Plus, he got into a fight with just about everyone in town last night, including me…and you…and his cat. All signs point to murder.
Essa: <deep heartfelt sigh> Listen, we both know how shit works in Chantilly Flats. I go out there, all gung-ho and arrest somebody, have them put on death row, then six months from now Jackson Bedford shows up claiming he has amnesia and doesn’t remember who tried to kill him. Let’s cut to the chase. I’ll start this murder investigation when you drag Jackson Bedford’s cold dead corpse onto my doorstep.
Officer Eric Mendelson: But I don’t have time to find the body. My sister-in-law is about to give birth to my secret love child and I need to get to the hospital in time to switch babies and…
Essa: <hangs up the phone>
Four hours later, Essa’s phone rings. It interrupts Filipe as he tries to climb in bed with her to have potentially incestuous relations in order to blackmail her later.
Essa: Filipe, get the fuck out of my bed! I might be your mother for Christ’s sake. <answers the phone after seeing the call is coming from the Chantilly Flats Police Department.> You got me a body?
Officer Eric Mendelson: Yes boss. Right on your front stoop. It’s definitely Jackson Bedford.
Essa: Hopefully, I can get this done in time to make it to my disciplinary hearing. You know, from when I let the Olgavie sisters off with a warning for murdering their uncle, who’d been sexually abusing them for years. Now gather every single person in town right to my front yard.
Officer Eric Mendelson: All of them? There’s like 14 people in Chantilly Flats.
Essa: Just fucking do it. I’ll be right down.
Essa arrives in the late afternoon, after having yet another fight with her bisexual husband, who is concerned because he might have testicular cancer. She stands at the podium in front of all 14 of the residents of Chantilly Flats.
Essa: Listen, I’m sick of these small town who-dunnits dragging on for months, so we’re going to take care of this right now. Everyone who had a fight with Jackson Bedford on the night of his death, raise your hand. <Every single hand goes up, including the paw of Jackson Bedford’s cat.> Great, now every single person who can’t name their alibi because you were screwing your sister or brother-in-law at the time of the incident, go away.
Eight people walk away, including Officer Eric Mendelson and Jackson Bedford’s cat.
Essa: Next, does anyone here have a drug problem which would prevent them from remembering the night in question? <Two hands go up> Good to know. Leave and check out your local AA chapter. It won’t help, but it will provide some interesting drug addict story fodder next season.
The two drug addicts walk away and Essa is left with four suspects.
Essa: Alright people, let’s hear some motives.
Karen Bedford: He was my husband and he was cheating on me with his secretary, who is also my secret half sister.
Lisa Nichols: I’m his secretary and he was blackmailing me into sleeping with him for years, because he knew that I killed my first husband and held my step kids captive in an attic. We have a secret love child together that he threatened to kill. It’s also in the attic.
Marcus Salinger: I’m his right hand man in his drug empire and I was having an affair with his wife. I also might be his secret love child.
Lilly Anderson: I’m a 14 year old girl scout. When I went to Bedford’s house, he refused to pay for the Thin Mints he ordered. Also, I have a brain tumor that causes brief periods of uncontrollable rage.
Essa considers all the information she’s heard. Drawing on years of tela-nova and soap opera watching, she realizes who did it.
Essa: Lisa, Karen, you can both go. No woman ever kills a man when she should in Chantilly Flats. Marcus, you can go. You are too obvious a suspect. Also, I’m pretty sure you’re my secret love child. Lilly, I know exactly what happened. You and Bedford wrestled over the Thin Mints. Bedford was a diabetic who had just gone into psychosis because he refused to take his insulin. He pulled a gun on you. You wrestled over the gun and in your panic, accidentally shot him.
Lilly: How did you know?
Essa: What can I say? I have too much time on my hands and I watch way too much TV.
Essa’s statement is interrupted by the sudden, shocking appearance of Jackson Bedford.
Jackson Bedford: Wait, that isn’t me <he points to the corpse on the ground>. It’s my evil twin. I only showed up now because I had amnesia.
Essa: Oh, fuck this. I’m moving.
Every now and then I get a message from a dude from my past, who I was friends with, but never romantically interested in.
These messages all take on the same theme. First, they start out by asking how I’m doing. Then, they move on to dragging up the past. This dragging up the past usually includes a confession about some secret crush they harbored for years, but never had the ability to act on.
Then it turns accusatory. Along the lines of ‘I always wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I knew you only dated assholes and I never thought you’d go for me.”
First, guys who do this, stop calling the dudes I used to date assholes. Yes, some of them were jerks, but many of them were perfectly nice guys with whom things just didn’t work out. These things happen and I don’t see the reason to pigeonhole them into the whole ‘asshole’ category. That category is reserved for actual assholes, like the guy who slapped me around or the asshole who’s behind on his child support.
Stop claiming that ‘girls only want assholes’ because we don’t go for your passive aggressive shtick. I’m so sorry that you spent years pretending to be my friend in some half-hearted attempt to get into my pants. Life must have been so incredibly rough for you…Seriously, those Boko Harem victims must have nothing on your pain.
You are not a nice guy. You’re just telling yourself you are because you feel like a failure. I know, because I’ve been in the same position.
A long time ago, I was crazy about this guy Dave. We went on a few dates but it never amounted to anything serious. Simply stated, Dave didn’t want children. I had one, so he shut any potential relationship we could have had down early on.
Initially, I was a bitch about it. I mean, I was perfect for him. Why couldn’t he ignore his own standards in order to make it work between us? We laughed at the same things and watched the same movies. We argued allot. He was one of the few people that could argue with me in a way that would actually shut me up. Let me tell you people, that is a rare quality for me to find in a man.
But we never really escaped the ‘friend zone’. Over time, I got mad at him. I was irritated with him because he didn’t want me. I started ignoring his phone calls and being a cunt to him.
Then, I remembered my friend Mark.
Mark was one of those guys that I had a ton in common with. We read the same books, watched the same movies and laughed at the same jokes. Despite the fact that Mark was an incredibly attractive Cuban guy, I was never sexually attracted to him. He just wasn’t my type. So when the inevitable came and Mark word vomited his feelings all over me, it made things weird. Mark got resentful because I didn’t feel the same way.
He disappeared from my life, despite the fact that we had a fantastic friendship. He threw that away because he couldn’t get into my pants, even though as he said , he was “such a nice guy”.
Then it occurred to me that Mark wasn’t really a nice guy.
He was a jerk who was only after me because he wanted to screw me. The fact that he wasn’t my type for a romantic relationship was enough of a problem to throw away 2 years of a good friendship. That made me feel utterly useless, like the only reason he laughed at my jokes was because he was trying to sleep with me. Like the only reason we ever hung out was because he wanted me to be a notch on his bed post. I felt used and hurt.
I thought we were friends, but we were only friends until Mark realized I wasn’t going to screw him, because my only apparent value to him was a sexual one.
Then I realized that I was doing the same thing to Dave. Dave was a good dude. We had fun together and he helped me through a lot of hard times. Was it really ok for me to cut him out of my life because he didn’t want to be romantically involved with me?
No, it wasn’t and I wasn’t being a nice girl. So I let that shit go and I accepted our friendship for what it was. A really good friendship. That is rare and there was no way that I was letting him out of my life over my own petty feelings.
To this day, me and Dave are still good friends. We don’t talk as much as we should; we both lead pretty busy lives, but he’s a good dude. He is one of the first people I contact when I’m having problems and he has helped me through more than a few rough patches.
He started seriously dating someone else, and I never even got jealous. By that time, I realized what he’d known all along. We weren’t really right for each other. He’s a type A conservative who has never smoked pot, hates kids and has an affinity for greyhound dogs.
I’m a type B liberal who loves kids, is secretary treasurer of a cannabis reform group and finds greyhounds creepy (their necks are just so skinny).
Once I was able to let of that romantic obsession I was feeling, I found true platonic love with Dave. I was able to be happy for his new relationships and tell him anything. I talked him through his depression and he talked me through a bipolar summer.
I would have never had that kind of friendship if I’d just decided to cut him out of my life simply because he didn’t want to fuck me.
Our relationship is good because we’re not friends with conditions. We’re not friends until one of us decides that ‘friends’ isn’t enough. Our relationship is good because we accept each other.
Boys, if you’re pissed because some chick that you’ve been passively aggressively seeing doesn’t want to take things to the next level, know this. She’s not the problem. You are.
You are the problem because apparently your entire relationship with that girl was based on manipulation. You weren’t being nice to her because you cared about her. You were being nice to her to see what you could get from her.
That isn’t nice and you are not ‘such a nice guy’. You are a manipulator and that is the polar opposite of being nice.
If you want to be friends with a girl, then do it. But if you’re only being friendly because you hope to get something out of her later, that’s not friendly. In fact, you’re kind of being a passive aggressive pussy.
Not everyone who you’re attracted to will be attracted back. That’s just a fact of life. But if you walk away from people because they don’t want to sleep with you, don’t want to date you, don’t want to have a relationship with you, you are limiting your own horizons. You are choosing your friends based on what they can do for you and not how you feel about them.
And you are not ‘such a nice guy.”
I’ve never claimed to be the smartest person in the world. Well… actually I have, on several occasions. But rest assured, I was entirely drunk when I did so.
My point is I am at best above average on the intelligence scale. But there are still several things in this world that confuse me. So I would like some clarification on the following.
Why the hell do my maxi pads have diagrams?
For men and really stupid women, a maxi pad is something that teenage girls and lazy writers with tilted pelvic bones use during their monthly menstrual cycle. What confuses me is that the inside of my maxi pad looks like this;
Is my menstrual flow supposed to be reading this diagram? Are my unfertilized eggs that smart that they know exactly where they are supposed to go? If so, should I feel guilty for the fact that I’m flushing them down the toilet? I mean, I won’t eat pork because pigs are smarter than dogs and that bothers me. If my unused eggs are smart enough to follow the diagram on a maxi pad, should I be throwing them away at all? Or should I be enrolling them in an Ivy League school?
Also, why blue for the diagram? Trust this people, the second I start seeing blue stuff leaking out of me; I’m not worried about staying ‘dry and fresh.’ I’m more worried about the fact that apparently I’m miscarrying an alien’s baby.
Why do people play the lottery?
I used to consider playing the lottery, then I elected to start lighting my money on fire and flushing it down the toilet instead becuase I realized the lottery is for idiots.
I’m not talking to you occasional hopefuls who buy a ticket on the way home from work. I’m talking to all you fucktards out there who choose scratch tickets like you’re choosing your first born’s name.
You know who you are. You show up at the gas station at rush hour and take 45 minutes trading in tickets to buy more tickets to a lottery that you will never win.
Listen fuckers, in the time that it takes you to pick out those tickets every day, you could have written a novel, created a cure for cancer or more realistically, GOTTEN A FUCKING JOB.
The house always wins. Whether you’re playing at a craps table or scratching off little grey boxes, you will always lose. But the lottery commission depends on one thing to keep selling tickets.
They depend on you being a fucking moron. Stop playing right into their hands.
Where the hell did Tilapia come from?
Ten years ago, I had no idea that this fish existed.
Now, it’s everywhere. At any restaurant I go to, tilapia is on the menu. When I was in the hospital, I even got served tilapia during the daily meal I ignored because I was too drugged up to eat. As I recall, it smelled like feet and tasted two items as bad.
The best way I could describe the flavor is ‘cardboard flavored death.’ But now it’s popping up everywhere. It’s like reality TV shows. One day I saw one, and the next day, the world was overrun. I’m pretty sure the government manufactured tilapia out of cardboard and old ashtrays in an attempt to make fun of hipsters.
What does the ‘power of prayer’ really do?
This week, Tracy Morgan was seriously injured in a car accident. That isn’t news. But what I saw in the comments is news, because apparently there are idiots who feel they can save Tracy Morgan through the power of prayer.
First of all, the fact that Tracy Morgan is a celebrity does not make him any more important than the people that were on the bus with him, who were also seriously injured (or killed).
Next, what the fuck are your prayers supposed to do?
Let’s be honest. You don’t know Tracy Morgan. If he dies tomorrow, you might open your Facebook page and be like “oh, so sad, I will pray for his family. :( :(”
But you won’t really pray and you won’t be sad. You’re just saying that. You don’t know him, his family or what they’re going through. You’re just using him as an excuse to sound like a good person.
My bible knowledge tells me this. You can’t pray for someone to live or die. It doesn’t work like that. According to the Catholics, everything is predefined and whatever happens to one person will be god’s will, and can’t be changed. You can only pray for your own acceptance of that fate.
So why the fuck are you idiots wasting time praying? If you really want to honor Tracy Morgan, head to Vegas, get wasted and snort some coke off a hooker’s ass.
Above all, stop bringing god into this mess. It isn’t your place to pray for Tracy Morgan, no matter how much you liked him as Brian Fellows. It’s his family’s place so back the fuck off and let them grieve in peace. Stop stealing their grief so you can get attention.
That’s all I had to say. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go buy some lottery tickets so I can buy candles for Tracy Morgan at midnight mass, because he is the most important person in the world to me. My menstrual eggs are also coming. They followed the maxi pad diagram right out of my pants and used a very complicated algorithm to buy their own winning lottery tickets.