Essa Writes a Lifetime Movie

You know what slogan I hate? “Lifetime: Television for Women.” While I do enjoy the occasional show in the network (Snapped, anyone?) I do not consider this my network and I find it presumptuous that they dare associate themselves with me simply based on the fact that I have a vagina.

It’s not the shows that are my problem. It’s the horrible, horrible movies. Every single one is designed to be a completely clichéd piece of shit. Not only do they dare to irritate me with clichés, they love to cash in on mass hysteria as well, frequently bringing us shows about the dangers of sexting, internet perverts, avian bird flu and whatever topic is popular in inspiring fear in everyone because it happened to one kid in some rural Idaho town.

However, some chicks must love this shit because Lifetime has been spewing out one clichéd mess after another since I was 12. As such, I have decided to totally sell out and write a movie for them. Enjoy.

 

Love Comes A Knocking…From the Pervert Next Door

A Women’s Empowerment/Moment of Truth/Girl Power/Vagina Fest Production

Starring Tracy Gold and the creepy blond guy with no eyebrows, who is kind of hot, but also looks like a serial killer

Alexandria is a sexy single mom who works at a magazine and is just trying to make it in the city. She is overworked and under appreciated and she has no time for a love life. Even though her mother (played by Judge Judy) is constantly harassing her to settle down and find someone nice, she still is unable to hook a man. Alexandria is just too much of a busy ball breaker to date a man. She’s too busy working at the magazine, with a boss who sexually harasses her regularly, and caring for her two children.

Alexandria is divorced from her husband, because he used to hire prostitutes on Craigslist and then kill them. He was also abusive and addicted to meth, so she has trouble trusting men. This leaves her two daughters with no father figure. Her youngest, Cassie (played by Isabella Acres) is precocious, but streetwise, and spits out a new catchphrase every fifteen seconds. Her oldest, Brittney (played by Miranda Cosgrove) is the head cheerleader at her school, but has recently become the subject of internet bullying due to the fact that she texted a nude picture to her internet boyfriend Steven (played by Gary Busey), who actually turned out to be a 60 year old man.

Due to the incident, and her subsequent suicide attempt, Brittney is sent to live with her no nonsense, spry, young at heart granny, Esmeralda (played by Betty White) in a small rural town that actually still has farms. (Also, they’re Amish. Let’s just throw that in there too.) There, Brittney learns the meaning of inter-generational love, a hard day’s work and foils an evil land developers plan to knock down the old folks home at Christmas time to build a parking lot.

Back in LA, Alexandria continues to regularly work for her evil, lazy womanizing boss, Nick (played by um, fuck, who really needs money?…Charlie Sheen). In an attempt to win a major business deal, Nick is forced to pretend to have a wife and family. That’s where Alexandria and Cassie come in. In exchange for the promotion she’s been angling for, Alexandria agrees to pretend to be his wife for one night.

Unfortunately, some kind of ridiculous wackiness ensues and Alexandria and her precociously adorable daughter are forced to move in with Nick in order to convince the Japanese investors (played by a bunch of tourists I found at Disneyland) that their marriage is legit. The two get in all kinds of shenanigans that cause them to grow closer. (I don’t know; something about getting stuck in an elevator together and knocking some stuff over at the mall. Whatever. We’ll do it montage style). They fall in love. Alexandria learns to trust again. Nick learns about the unconditional love that he couldn’t accept because he never got it from his alcoholic mother. They all learn the true meaning of Christmas.

Unfortunately, their troubles aren’t over. Nick’s evil, identical twin, Mick (also played by Betty White), comes to town, hell-bent on destroying Nick’s newfound happiness. He moves in next door and pretends to be nice, meanwhile exhibiting shifty eyes and smiling evilly whenever he thinks no one is looking. He also sets up cameras in the couple’s home and watches Alexandra shower, go to the bathroom and play with that weird mole on her neck that won’t go away. After it’s discovered that the evil Mick has been molesting Cassie, Alexandria confronts Mick at his office.

It culminates into a rooftop scene where Nick, Mick and Alexandria are stuck in a deadlock. Alexandria has the gun that Nick and Mick were fighting over. She doesn’t know who to shoot, because for some completely unknown reason, they are dressed exactly the same. Finally, she asks a question that only Nick could know the answer to.

“Why do they sterilize a death row inmates arm before they administer a lethal injection shot?”

The real Nick answers the question correctly and Alexandria shoots Mick. She races into Nicks arms, throwing her arms around him. Just as he leans in to hug her, the credits start rolling…and he smiles evilly while shifting his eyes.

The End

 

So, apparently, anyone can do this shit. Tracy Gold, give me a call when you’re ready to negotiate the terms. Unless you’ve gotten fat again. Otherwise, I’ll have to call Danica McKellar.

 


Dear England; I Don’t Give a Shit About Your Royal Family

I get it. You guys are proud. For the first time in well…ever, your royal family doesn’t fully resemble horses. In fact, they’re actually kind of cute. Good for you guys.

Now, can you take them back please? I’m a little tired of hearing about them every time Kate puts on a new fucking hat or they decide to go to a polo game. Shocker. Rich people going to a polo game. Thanks for the update CNN.

Look, I know it isn’t really your fault England, but I’m tired of appealing to the American media. They just decide whatever story their going to shove down our throats and we have to take it. So, I’m begging you England; take them back. Stop sending them on tour, and then getting pissed whenever someone takes a picture of them. Just stick them in the castle, or wherever they’re suppose to live, and have them come out on the balcony and occasionally do that stiff little waving thing you guys perfected.

Also, please send more pictures of Harry naked.

Sincerely,

Concerned American Citizen


Alternative Ways to Quit Smoking

So, as anyone who reads my stuff knows, I’m a pretty heavy smoker. Not social, not just when I drink. I am a full on, cigarette constantly in hand, gagging up green stuff in the morning, openly addicted smoker.

I have had a love/hate relationship with cigarettes since I was 12 (yup, started at 12, how sad is that). To be entirely honest, I love the way smoking makes me feel. I love the way that cloud of carcinogens and fiber glass (I’m a menthol lover) burns on its way down. I love the way it calms me down. I love way it gives me something to do with my hands and I love the way it keeps me from gaining weight.

I hate the fact that’s its probably going to kill me someday. I hate the fact that I get winded walking to the mailbox. I hate the way I wheeze in the morning when I wake up and a little voice whispers cancer with every intake of breath.

I’ve tried to quit. I’ve tried cold turkey, pills, lasers, patches, gum, fake cigarettes, candy cigarettes, lollipops and just about everything I can try, but it just doesn’t work. Why? Um, because I have absolutely so self control or will power whatsoever. So if I’m going to quit, I’m going to have to get extreme.

Aversion therapy – You know that thing where you put a rubber band on your wrist and snap it every time you think about smoking? Yeah, that’s for pussies. Seriously, who does that actually hurt? I have a pretty high pain threshold. Example? The other night, I removed a mole with a razor blade I got at Home Depot. Sounds stupid? A doctor would have charged me $200. I did it for $12 (adding in the cost of the six pack). So if this aversion therapy is going to work, it’s really going to have to hurt. From now on, every time I smoke a cigarette, I’m going to put it out on my hand when it’s done. I really can’t see any downside to this plan. Unless I get addicted to pain. Then I actually might start smoking more.

Get knocked up – The only time I’ve successfully quit for any length of time was when I was pregnant. Of course, I started again as soon as the baby weight didn’t instantly melt off, but for awhile, I had a good thing going. I don’t really want a baby though. Their cute, but they’re a lot of work and honestly, I’m really surprised that I have managed to keep my son alive for as long as I have. I don’t know if I could do it again.

Get addicted to something else – I’ve been watching Intervention a lot lately, and there are a whole listing of drugs that I’ve never even heard of. Did you know bath salts are a drug? I have some of those. The vanilla bean kind! I just don’t know how I’m supposed to ingest them? Snorting? Eating? If its smoking, that would kind of ruin the point. Maybe I could try porn? I already spend a lot of time on the computer, so it would really just be switching my focus from writing to watching freaky Asian girls do weird things to each other. Never mind, I just thought about “Two Girls One Cup” and gagged in my mouth a little.

Coma – This isn’t really something I can plan, but if I was in a coma, I’m pretty sure I could kick the habit for good. Not one of those weird comas with the breathing tube and brain damage. I just want one of those nice, “Soap Opera” comas where my hair is always perfect and I wake up fully alert, like I just took a really long nap.

Time Machine – Any day now, according to every sci-fi movie I’ve ever seen, one of these is going to be invented. Once it is, I’ll get in one and set my destination to 1992 in a small New Hampshire town. I will find little Essa, hiding out behind the local convenience store, with a group of her hooligan friends, and slap the cigarette right out of her hand before she can take that first addictive drag. As a bonus, on my way back, I’ll stop in 1999 and warn my 19 year old self to never see Blair Witch Project. Such a stupid shitty movie.

That’s all I’ve got for now, but I’m open to more ideas. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch some pornography. All this burning myself with cigarettes has made me weirdly horny.


Dear News; You’re Supposed to be Unbiased

ver·ba·tim

adjective /vərˈbātəm/

  1. In exactly the same words as were used originally
    • - subjects were instructed to recall the passage verbatim
    • - your quotations must be verbatim

I inserted the above definition to remind any journalists or newscasters out there that the news is supposed to be delivered in the exact manner of the above listed word. The word is verbatim, aka, word for word, unbiased, without inserting your own personal slant. Ver – god – damn- ba – tim.

The news is not an opinion piece. It’s the news. Share the facts, and not your opinion of the facts.

I’m bringing this up tonight because I’m seeing a familiar news story pop up. It comes around every year at this time, and the headline is always something along the lines of “those evil atheists are trying to ruin Christmas again.”

 

I dealt with in when the news was complaining that all the atheists had gotten together and demanded that Christmas become ‘Festivus’, despite the fact that the story was complete bullshit and a source could never be found. I dealt with it when the news jumped in and said the evil atheists wanted to cancel government holidays related to Christmas, because they were religious. Again, no source located and ridiculous premise. Who the hell demands they NOT be given a day off?

This year it’s a nativity scene that is at the center of that controversy. Apparently, a bunch of evil atheists got together and demanded that nativity scenes in a local Santa Monica park be taken down, because they shouldn’t be forced to look at them. The nativity scenes would apparently offend their delicate sensibilities. At least, that was what my newscaster alleged.

Unfortunately, he was unable to separate how he felt from the actual FACTS of the news story. Let me tell you what really happened.

Let’s start with the history. Back in the day, a collection of Christian Santa Monica churches used to take up all 21 available slots in Palisades Park to stage their own nativity scene.  A couple years back, a few more groups jumped in. They said, ‘hey, we would like to stage our own Christmas scene too.’ In the interest of fairness, the city of decided to hold a raffle, so everyone would get a fair chance at setting their own Christmas scene. There were 21 spots available.

Atheists won 18 of those spots, a Jewish group won another. The final two were allocated to the Christian churches that entered. So the Christian churches sued. Today they lost.

And the atheists ruined Christmas.

There is no guarantee that the Atheists wouldn’t have done anything, just because it was for Christmas. In fact, several of the groups were planning traditional ‘Santa Clause and Reindeer” displays. Also, the ‘atheist’ spots were actually ‘secular’ spots. But don’t bother a newscaster with actual fucking facts. Their too busy reporting their opinions.

Of course, in answer to the controversy, the city banned ALL private displays. So now nobody wins. And it’s all the atheists fault.

Here’s the thing. I, like many American’s, am not an Atheist. But I am also not religious. I like to consider myself an Agnostic Apathist. (Which is a religion I made up entirely). Mainly, the philosophy of an Agnostic Apathist is that the only people who know what happens when you die are dead people. So, I’ll go ahead and worry about what happens after I’m dead WHEN I’M DEAD.

Agnostic Apathy in a nutshell. I try not to hurt anyone, I make decisions based on my own moral compass, and I leave other people the hell alone unless their asking for my help. I don’t have to go to meetings once a week. I don’t make fun of what other people believe in. I don’t pray to a father figure, because I don’t need to. If I really feel like I’m doing something wrong, I don’t do it. If not, I do. I don’t act like I know how we got here or how it all ends, because in all honesty, nobody does! Maybe there’s something, maybe there’s nothing, but to date, no one has given me any definitive proof either way.

At the same time, I feel like atheists get a bad rap. Most of the atheists I meet are a lot like me. They agree that their might be something, but at the same time, their afraid of admitting it lest some over eager zealot try to shove religion down their throat. They’re not bad people, they’re not good people. They’re just people and their not trying to ruin Christmas.

I will admit there are some snarky atheists out there, with the condescending attitudes who think they know it all. And for every one atheist like that, I could probably introduce you to a religious counterpart who is just as bad.

So news, stop trying to create a bad guy every year around this time. Stop pinning it on the atheists because their easy targets. Instead, report the damn facts of any given situation and stop adjusting them to meet your own ends.

I’ll go back to getting wasted on eggnog and watching Rudolph. All is as it should be, just like on the first Christmas.

 


The Facebook Fight – Succeeding in Making Everyone Look Moronic Since 2003

 

I’ve made my feelings clear on this time and time again, with the Excessive Information Status Update, the spam post and many other blogs, but I just feel like my Facebook friends aren’t listening…despite the fact that I link this page to my Facebook. So let me make this clear one more time.

No one should be confronted with your drama when their doing something as innocuous as checking their Facebook timeline.

I’m not talking about some basic “oh, so tired of my friends’ or ‘work sucks so much’. Everyone wants to vent a little now and then and I get it. I’m talking dropping a bomb, like calling your wife a fat cow who you want to divorce or kicking your son out of the house via status update.

Lots of people say, “if you don’t like it, don’t look.” Here’s the problem with that. Once three people comment on a retarded post like that, its starts showing up on MY timeline. And believe me, if you’re announcing a trail separation from your wife or giving your kid the boot, you’re getting more than three comments.

And I feel the urge to step in. Not by commenting. That I save for all the idiots who want to play Facebook Flame Wars. Instead, I want to tell anyone whose ever done this, you don’t look right, you aren’t justified. You’re crass and classless.

And for me to be saying something like that, it has to be pretty bad, because I am the motherfucking QUEEN of crass and classless. If you don’t believe it, just read my book. <— (Example of classless, sneaking a plug in for my book in a post that has nothing to do with it.)

Look, when you’re starting a fight on Facebook, you’re doing it in the public eye. Maybe you’re ok with that. Maybe you’re ok airing your dirty laundry in public. You know who else is ok with that? People who go on the Jerry Springer show.

That’s what you are. You are the literary equivalent of a Jerry Springer guest star…and you got me changing the channel to watch reruns of Frasier as fast as I can click ‘unfriend’.

That’s why I don’t get rid of my Facebook entirely. Because I know, someday, reason will prevail and you will be sitting alone on your page, arguing with your four remaining friends about which one of your cousins its ok to sleep with.

And I will be plugging my book, sharing dirty jokes, and clicking like on various ‘lolcats’ pictures in peace.


The Fear of Commitment – Fact or Fiction?

 

I hear this phrase get tossed around a lot. It’s usually by a friend of mine who just went out on a date with some douche she met on Plenty of Fish. “Yeah, he’s a totally awesome guy. He’s just not ready for a relationship right now. He went through a lot with his ex (wife, girlfriend, sheepherder, whatever). For now, we’re going to take it slow and just let what happens happen. Oh, also, we’re totally sleeping together.”

Heartfelt sigh and hefty eye roll.

Let me explain something right now. There really is no such thing as a fear of commitment. There is a fear of committing to you, that’s for damn sure. But the fear of commitment thing is a fucking myth, perpetrated by the entire male gender so they could fuck you and have an excuse for trading up when something better comes along.

Because ask yourself this; If a 22 year old, supermodel, nymphomaniac billionaire virgin dropped into his lap, do you really think he’d still have a fear of commitment?

I can’t blame dudes for trying this one all the damn time, because chicks fall for it again and again. The whole broken, damaged, “maybe I can fix him” thing. Sometimes, my friends will even have the balls to say “well, at least he was honest.”

Um yeah, honesty ain’t everything. What if he honestly told you his trunk was full of dead hookers? Would that make the hooker killing ok? I didn’t think so.

I love it when a dude drops the ‘fear of commitment’ thing thirty minutes into our first conversation. It’s his way of telling me I’m good enough for one night, but not good enough for a weekend trip. Thanks for the validation douche bag. I’ll stick to being hot and you stick to going home alone.

I just find the ‘fear of commitment’ so damn arrogant. How do you even know anyone wanted to commit to you in the first place? Trust me, if you’re a 41 year old, overweight, out of work software engineer living in you moms basement, your fear of commitment is about as valid as your fear of zombies. Both zombie apocalypse and you getting a woman who actually wants you for something beside a drunken accident are equally as likely to happen, so put your fears aside. I’m pretty sure you’re safe.

In all honesty, I have no desire for a committed relationship. If it happens, cool. If not, my life is full enough to keep me from getting depressed. My biological clock ain’t ticking, I already had a kid. I have a mirror to remind me how hot I am, gardeners who mow my lawn, and a neighbor with just enough of a crush on me to fix my transmission for free.

But some guy disqualifying me for something I haven’t even asked for just gets my dander up. And that’s pretty hard to do, because I don’t even know what dander is! I think it might be an adult male goose named Dan?

Anyway, what I’m trying to say to the men out there is the fear of commitment thing is played out. Time to let it go. Because while a fear of commitment might be sexy when you’re thirty, by the time your 60, it just screams ‘trunk full of dead hookers’.

Don’t be that guy.


Stupid Greener Grass

 

So a few months ago, I was absolutely miserable. I was sitting in a cubicle 8 to 10 hours a day, watching my life drain away and feeling like it was in perpetual pause. For people who don’t know what perpetual pause is (and you shouldn’t, because I just made that phrase up), its when every single day of your life feels exactly the same and the only think that changes is the amount of crows feet on your face.

So I did what any normal person would do to fix my problem. I antagonized my employer until they had no choice but to fire me. In all honesty, it was only a matter of time. I was incredibly bad at my job and I am still amazed to this day that it took everyone 6 years to notice.

I think I might be prettier than I originally thought.

I would like to say straight off, I have no regrets. My job was guaranteed to end only one way.With me flinging myself out a window if we had another ‘Lean Process’ meeting.

The freelancing is going well. I’m actually a bit busier than I can handle at the moment, with new clients sending me query letters every day. I’ve finished a novella and almost finished my sequel and I’m pretty sure as soon as I put them up, I’ll have a decent amount of residual income coming in from book sales.

But how do I put this? Oh yeah, I’M FUCKING BORED. I’m spending like 16 hours a day on my computer. How do the fat guys who live in their moms basements do this? I’m tired of wearing sweatpants and putting my hair in a pony tail. I’m tired of forgetting what day it is, what month it is and sometimes what year it is. The only people I see are my brother and my son and I’ve run out of shit to say to both of them.

I miss coworkers and inappropriate workplace jokes. I miss mean spirited rumors and snide office gossip. I miss high heels, wearing lipstick and fixing myself up in the morning.

So I’m considering a part time job. Many people might be scream, ‘why!, you’re living the dream. You answer to no one. You’re self-employed!” But in all honesty, I have to disagree. Why? Because now is the perfect time to get a part time job.

I have absolutely nothing to lose.

I don’t need the job and I don’t need the money. What I need is the human interaction and change of pace. And if that human interaction and change of pace doesn’t meet my standards, if my boss is an asshole or the work is boring, there is nothing in the world to keep me from photocopying my middle finger and sliding it into all my coworkers inboxes. There’s nothing to keep me from quitting in a way that will get me escorted from the building by security. And there is nothing keeping me from posting it on my blog for all your entertainment.

And if it turns out the grass was greener when I was sitting behind my desk 16 hours a day, there’s nothing to stop me from going back to it.

I might start looking tomorrow. Then again, this might be a delusion brought on by the dangerous levels of sleeping pills and beer I’m mixing. If so, disregard.

If not, I think I might make a good DJ.


I Can’t Write a Sex Scene

I’ve taken a tiny break from working on my sequel to write a short novella called ‘The Apology’. It’s not my usually genre. See, I’m more of a pulp-novel, mystery/suspense kind of girl. I might toss an undercurrent of romance in there, but I generally don’t focus my books on it. This novella is giving me some trouble because it falls into the ‘romantic suspense’ genre.

You know what that means? Sex scenes.

Ugh, fucking sex scenes. I mean literally, fucking sex scenes. I can usually write about anything. I can write an action scene. I can write a twist like a pro, but the one thing I’m totally uncomfortable with is writing sex scenes. Nothing makes my head throb like the idea of writing about throbbing loins.

I think there’s an ointment for that.

There’s something so skeevy about it to me. I’m always worried that anyone reading one of my scenes is going to be like, ‘oh, so this is what she thinks about when she masturbates.’

For the record, its not. I think about shirtless Obama or rolling around in a giant pile of money when I masturbate. If I’m feeling particularly kinky, I might fantasize about rolling around in a giant pile of money with shirtless Obama. I know it’s totally unrealistic. If we were rolling around in anything, it would probably be a pile of Yuan borrowed from China.

But my fantasies aside, I just don’t feel like I can pull off a good sex scene. I mean, if you read last nights rant, you know I haven’t done it in awhile. What if they changed it? And the wording! I refuse, absolutely refuse, to use the phrase “throbbing manhood.” But then what am I supposed to use? Penis is far too clinical and cock feels way to crude. Maybe I can make up my own, like ‘moaning love snake’ or ‘heated, swollen kielbasa.’

Great, now I’m hungry.

I don’t have this problem with anything else. If I’m stuck on a bit of dialog, or a conversation feels stilted, I go out and I people watch. I write down the gestures they use and the way they move when they talk, and voila, writers block over. I can’t really do the same thing with a sex scene. Unless there is somebody out there who is willing to let a strange woman watch them and their significant other do it while she takes notes? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Also, I know a lot of the people that read my books. Like my mother, and my brother, and my aunts and cousins. I can’t even watch a sex scene in a movie with them without feeling awkward and having to leave the room. The last thing I want to do is let them read a sex scene cooked up in my head.

I might have to outsource to an SEO company based in India. Unfortunately, if I do that, my sex scene is going to read like this;

She gripped his happiness with much fervor and proceeded to orally fixate his arousal.

“Careful,” he stated, as he gasped and clutched her hand, sweat dotting his brow, “If you continue to gesticulate my manhood in such a manner, I will be forced to consult with a PERSONAL INJURY ATTORNEY SYRACUSE NY”

Anyway, I’m off for the night. My plan is to get uber drunk and then search the internet for pictures of Obama with his shirt off, and then write a sex scene rife with spelling errors. However, if you happen to be part of an attractive couple, who is interested in having a strange writer watch them intently and take notes as they engage in intercourse with their partner, I would greatly appreciate it.

As would my throbbing womanhood.


Unreasonably Angry for No Reason

 

You ever do that thing where you get so mad that you squeeze your computer mouse in your hands until you’re pretty sure you could crush it with a flick of your wrist with no effort at all? I just did that. I did that because I’m insanely furious right now and I have no idea why. Seriously, this is the kind of mood that politicians get in right before they beat a hooker to death and pay someone to cover it up. But I’m really not sure why I’m so angry, so I’m going to go ahead and use my audience as my psychoanalysts’.

1. I broke a nail earlier today and now I have one awkwardly short nail and nine awkwardly long nails. Then I got annoyed with my long nails and started chewing them. Now, my hands look like the hands of a 90 year old homeless dude and I’m too lazy to get a nail file.

2. Political updates on Facebook are driving me crazy. I told you all nothing would change and I would like to proudly point out that voter turn out was unexpectedly low this election. I’m going to take the credit. Now that’s its over, let’s stop taking about it. I totally feel for that three year old who was crying over how tired she was about hearing about “Bronco Obama”. Me too sweetheart, me too.

3. My computer is a piece of shit that can’t even download a YouTube video or upload a questionnaire. Seriously, its 1997 up in here and ‘reality bites’.

4. I haven’t gotten laid in months. And my friends, all being in committed relationships, don’t understand. Last time we went out, they took me to a gay bar. Seriously guys? A fucking gay bar? Maybe if I get tricky, cut my hair and suck in my chest, I have a slight amount of chance from getting some ass from a really desperate bi-curious dude. Other than that, I’m fucked. I really can’t wait until you all break up with your boyfriends and I can start hooking up with anonymous hot dudes in bars again while you’re on the rebound. No joke. You all suck and you were so much awesomer when you were single..

5. People keep asking me “what’s wrong.” What’s wrong is I want to punch you in the throat and I don’t know why.

6. My clients are driving me crazy. “I want you to edit my articles…but I want you to keep all the same information…and I don’t want you to change my tone….or my wording…or anything.” Why the fuck did you hire me then? If you don’t know, I can’t help you. Now stop wasting my time, I have Nigerian scam artists who need me to plaster websites with spam.

7. Maybe its people saying this to me. “Oh, you’re a writer? Well, I’ve always thought about writing a book. It’s about a woman who finds the meaning of life in crocheting pictures of Jesus. I should be a writer too.” You know what? Fuck you. So you have an idea. It’s easy to have ideas. Everyone has a goddamn idea. You know what’s hard? ACTUALLY WRITING THE FUCKING BOOK! So stop giving me vague, ‘genius’ ideas that you thought of while you were taking a dump the other night and assuming that if I write the book for you, I’ll give you 90% of the profits, because you were so kind as to share your magical ideas with me. Listen, today, I ate a bowl of alphabet soup and shit out an idea better than yours. Ideas are easy. It’s the writing that’s hard. The day you spend twelve hours people watching so you can accurately describe the unconscious moments that people don’t even think about, then putting them in writing so your dialog looks natural, then maybe I’ll agree that you’re a writer. Until then, stop giving me ideas. I have enough of my own and they keep me up at night.

8. It might be the booze.

9. 30 Rock is ending this season and I just can’t deal. Sure, there are still new episodes, but every time I watch one now, I have the famous ‘George Carlin Candy Bar’ mindset. For those who don’t understand, its how when you’re eating a candy bar, you’re fully aware that every bite you take is closer to it being gone. Because of that, you’re unable to actually enjoy the candy bar. Instead, your too busy thinking about how much it’s going to suck when the candy bar is gone. That’s how I feel about 30 Rock.

10. It’s all Obama’s fault…that I haven’t been laid in months.

Anyway, I’m not sure why I’m so mad. Maybe I thought my life would be better than this at 32. Maybe I’m a lonely grumpy drunk. Maybe I’m just pissed off at my computer. Maybe I’m watching time pass by and I know, in the blink of an eye I’m going to be 50 and I pray to God that I won’t be the same person I am now. I’m hoping I’ll have a life bigger than a 3 bedroom apartment in a quazi-nice part of town. I know that my wish sounds selfish to a lot of people, that they could only hope to have it as good as I do right now and I have to tell you…that scares me even more.

Or maybe, I just really need to get laid.


Last Minute Election Musings

 

So, if you follow me, you know that I am anti-voting on this years elections and this time tomorrow, will be passed out on my couch in a drug induced stupor, not giving a shit who our next president will be.

As I have decided that America is completely unfixable, I really can’t be bothered with driving the three tenths of a mile to my local polling place and sharing my opinion.

But, I have also decided to be prepared for the outcome, regardless of what happens. So, I have created a list of things that will happen, depending on the results of this election.

If Obama wins

- I will regularly check the TMZ website, hoping for more photographs of Obama without his shirt on so I can masturbate to them.

If Romney wins

- I will repeatedly suffer from electrocution after licking the screen of my television when any news conference with Paul Ryan comes up. Trust me; I’m not the only one. One of the automatic things that comes up if you put Paul Ryan’s name into Google is “Paul Ryan shirtless”. Not making this up. Seriously, check it.

If Obama wins

- I am really going to have to learn how to spell his damn name right.

If Romney wins

- I am really going to have to learn to spell his damn right name right. For some reason, my auto correct keeps trying to call him “Ramen Noodles.”

If Obama wins

- I will be forced to listen to Mrs. Obama ramble on about childhood obesity and how hard it is to avoid it, when all of her kid’s meals are prepared by a world class nutritionist and dietician in the white house.

If Romney wins

- I will be forced to listen to Mrs. Romney bitch about how hard it is to be an aging trophy wife who only had the assistance of her 4 Portuguese nannies and a giant pile of money to help her raise her children.

If Obama wins

- Key & Peele will be cancelled. The only thing that show had going for it is its “Obama and Angry Obama” sketches

If Romney wins

- The producers of SNL will have a voodoo like ceremony to raise Phil Hartman from his grave just so he can play Romney in sketches.

If Obama wins

- We will have a president with rock hard abs that only Chuck Norris could compete with

If Romney wins

- We will have a president with perfect hair and I will have more time to pull his image up on my high def TV to see if he had hair plugs, or if God just likes Mormons better.

If Obama wins

- My life will be exactly the same as it was during his prior administration.

If Romney wins

- My life will be exactly the same as it was during the prior administration.

 

Here’s the thing people, regardless of who’s sitting in that oval office, they don’t choose your destiny. You do. Neither guy can magically make the economy better. Neither guy can make your life better. They’re both the same guy. Our new national figurehead. So you decide. Do you want to move the black ken doll or the white ken doll into Barbie’s Malibu mansion? Because that’s about how much that vote matters.

As for my destiny? Well that involves a 6 pack of Bud Light and my ass on the couch. Every day after that is my decision. It ain’t Barrack Obama’s and it ain’t Mitt Ramen Noodles.

Fucking auto correct.


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