We added a few new members to my group of friends this year. Ones of the male persuasion . One is a hilarious Greek guy who I’m pretty sure is retired from a career of dropping bodies in the east river. One may or may not be an aging professional gigolo. The final one is a guy I’ll call Brandon*. He is the everyman. He’s the guy who doesn’t have a super cool story to tell. He’s young, so he doesn’t have a lot of life experience. On a scale of 1 to 10, he falls in at an absolute average.
But he could make it work. In fact, any guy can make it work. It’s not about looks or cool stories. Truth be told, once your 10 minutes into your 10th story of the evening, our minds are glazing over and we’re thinking about shoes.
Based on what I’ve seen with Brandon, as well as every other ‘everyman’ friend that I’ve had through the years, I think a few minor tweaks could drastically improve their game. So, to all my everyman friends out there, I’ve compiled a list of helpful tips to keep you from dying a virgin.
If you are over the age of 30, never use the phrase ‘let’s do shots’ again. Here’s the thing, if you’re screaming at me, ‘let’s do shots!’ ten minutes into meeting me, I fully expect your next question to be if I charge by the hour. The same thing goes for requests for me to dance on the table or make out with my friends in front of you. I’m not a lesbian but I am a terrible dancer. Neither of those things is changing because you suggested it.
Never allow your male friends to ‘talk you up’ to a girl. Guys often make the mistake of trying to help their friends by telling the prospect what a ‘great guy’ he is and how he’s ‘one of your best friends’. While your drunk friend is saying that, we’re hearing, ‘this is my friend. He’s really desperate and I question his ability to pick up a chick on his own. There’s something wrong with him. Please throw him a pity lay’. Keep your wingmen in order. Talk-ups are not helpful. Notice how you never see the hot, rich guy with the nice car getting talked up by his wingmen. Why? Because they know he doesn’t need it.
Don’t waste time on an uninterested prospect. If the girl is ignoring you, interrupting you, or tells you she has a boyfriend in the first 3 minutes of meeting you, she’s not interested. Move on. In fact, give yourself a five minute time frame with any girl, whether she’s interested in you or not. Then walk away for a few minutes. Nothing seems more desperate than the helicopter pick up. If you just cling to the hottest girl in the bar all night, chances are, she’s just going to get annoyed and eventually take a trip to the bathroom that she never returns from.
Don’t be a pussy, make the first move. Men are supposed to be the hunters; it’s biological. That’s why the guy who approaches girls first gets girls first. If we pick you up, it turns us into the man. Nothing murders my libido like having to do the hunting. Unless I’m drunk, then its open season.
Don’t try to be something you’re not. If you’re a geek, embrace it. Talking like a thug or acting like a frat boy just rings false when your really a white, 140 pound technical support rep. Contrary to popular belief, girls don’t like assholes. We like confidence. Nothing screams low self esteem like acting fake. Like wizards or civil war reenactments? Talk about it. Talk about the shit you care about, but do it in moderation. If she has no idea what “Magic the Gathering” is, don’t spend 45 minutes explaining the finer points of keyword abilities.
Make good use of eye contact. When you’re speaking, focus on her eyes and not her boobs. Her boobs can only tell you if the room is cold. Her eyes will tell you if she’s bored, not focused or not interested. See more on eye contact here.
Hopefully, I’ve given a few things to mull over today as the every-men wander out the door, hopeful that this New Years will be better that the last. May your New Years Eve be everything you dreamed it could be and more. If you’re truly lucky, you just might wake up in an apartment you don’t recognize on the first day of 2013!
* Name changed based on the fact that I have been watching an old school 90210 marathon
Lately, I’ve been using sleeping pills to get to sleep at night (obviously, I mean I wouldn’t be taking them to help me with my layup). Anyway, one awesome side effect of these little white buggers is some truly interesting and psychedelic dreams.
Is it still considered a side effect if the side effect is the whole reason you’re taking them?
Anyway, I’m the kind of person that likes having dreams. Without them, sleep is boring. I like the good dreams for obvious reasons, but I even like the bad ones. Why? Because that instant rush of relief you feel when you wake up and realize none of it was real makes the nightmare totally worth it.
I know, I’m weird. Whatever.
I sometimes wonder if there is any actual meaning to dreams. Some scientists contend that time is relative. If so, then a peek at the future might not be totally impossible. I mean, I’ve had dreams where the things I dream about actually happen later, but that’s probably a coincidence. I spend a lot of time hanging out at bars in my dreams. I also lose my car in the parking lot of the mall. Both these things frequently happen in real life, and on the astral plane.
I dream of water a lot. Some see dreaming of water as a spiritual omen of future wealth. I see it as an omen that I passed out in the bath again. I have got to stop taking those damn pills before bath time.
My favorite part of a dream is the part where you realize that it’s a dream, but you don’t wake up. That’s only happened to me a few times, but when it does, I use it to my advantage. I spent a lot of time flying (not walking, flying) away from explosions in slow motion in those dreams. I have also had carnal knowledge of a very long list of celebrities. Good times.
I’d like to think that there’s some kind of deeper meaning behind dreams, but I think they are usually just little pieces of the day you can’t quite get out of your head. That’s why my dreams always take place in bars, or at my high school, which is really weird. It’s been a while since I was in high school. I probably couldn’t tell you half of my teachers names back then. But those little high school pieces stay stuck.
I’m excited about dreams today because one I had last night gave me an idea for a story. At least, I hope it was the dream, and not some Lifetime movie playing in the background that I am going to copy word for word. How much would that suck?
Anyway, I’m off. I have an appointment with two little white pills, followed by a trip to my high school in my underwear.
After Christmas letdown. I remember it being a lot more severe when I was a kid. Maybe it’s because its such a relief that Christmas is over. Maybe it’s because I’ve replaced the letdown with a more adult version. It’s called ‘the hangover’. It’s mainly that same, sluggish, depressed feeling, but the adult version includes vomiting.
You know what a great cure for after Christmas
hangover letdown is? Downloading one of my new books onto that awesome new kindle you got. Let me take you to a beautiful, magical place, where Gary Busey is a valid authority figure and casual drug use is considered a life calling.
First off, if you’re the commitment shy type, my novella, The Apology, is free for the next three days. This book is the literary equivalent of a bar fly. Very little time commitment and it doesn’t expect you to spend any money on it. Also, like that experienced bar fly, it is fantastic in bed and will do dirty, dirty things to you. Well, not really, but sex sells. Let’s just say it’s good. It even has alpacas. Trust me, you’ll love it.
If you have read my first book, Strangely Sober and liked it, then the second installment, Asymmetric Angels, is out today. If you read my first book, Strangely Sober, and hated it, why the hell are you still reading my blog? That’s just weird.
Or you can see the book that started it all. Satisfied readers have said things like “I think you would have to be on something to read this book!”. Ok, that was actually a quote from my 1 star review, but it looks much more positive when there’s an exclamation point added, don’t you think? Really though, some people actually liked it. You should check it out. You might be one of those people.
Every year around this time, I have a holiday tradition that I like to take part in. I like to wait until the last minute to go Christmas shopping because I am both cheap and disorganized. So every year,with only days left until Christmas, I take my son and I go shopping for my mother.
For those who don’t know, she’s a New Hampshire/Florida snowbird and for six months out of the year, she lives with me. She is the reason that I get mail from AARP and the scooter store. She and my dog have a lot in common. They’re both little, they both fall asleep several times a day, and they’re both fascinated with squirrels.
Anywho, I never know what to get her. She always asks for the crappiest presents.
Mom: Oh, you know what I need? Some more Borax.
Me: Mom, Borax isn’t a present.
Mom: You sure?
Mom: Ok, I’ll think of another one then. (Tilts her head.) You know we’re running low on milk.
Me: (physically painful eyeroll) Gift card it is.
I mean Jesus. So every year, I drag my son to the mall and we do some seriously disorganized, half-hearted shopping. It’s hard to shop for the kind of person who thinks a grocery list qualifies as a present list. Logan and I always focus on two things. We get her a box of chocolates (that we are sure to eat on her behalf a few days after she opens them) and we get her lotion. We go to the Bath & Body works store where I drop $50 on some candles that say things like “Fresh Cotton”, but really smell like “Hippy Van”.
And I get some stripper glitter.
That’s a yearly tradition too. See, my white trash roots refuse me to turn down anything with glitter. So, for the month of January, 2013, I will be covered in a layer of stripper glitter that will be blinding to look at. No joke, I will be visible from space. It won’t fade until I stop caring about my looks again. That happens several times during the year. I fade into a haggard, sweatpants wearing beast of a thing. I consider it my cocoon period. I’m only resting until its time to burst out of my shell as a beautiful butterfly.
Covered in stripper glitter.
I’m looking forward to January. Not just because New Years Eve will be a place to wear my new stripper glitter, but because I know 2013 is going to be a good year. It’s the make it or break it period for me and I’m pretty sure I’m going to make it.
If so, you’re all invited to my strippers and coke party. Dress as your favorite literary figure for $5 off the cover. Date TBD. I’ll be the girl covered in stripper glitter.
With the holiday season in full swing, I really wanted to take the opportunity to express my deep love and appreciation for one individual who has changed my life. This person has made my days easier and my existence better. Because of my deep, unconditional love for this person, I don’t feel the need to hide my deep affection for him. So I am posting an online love letter to him, with the hopes that fate will allow him to stumble onto it.
Dear Indian Guy Who Owns the Ghetto Gas Station that Sells Bongs by My House,
I just wanted to say thanks you for, well, everything. It’s not about one major thing that you’ve done, but a collection of the little things, that make you so incredibly awesome.
I remember the first time we met. I came in wearing two different shoes and a pair of sweatpants with penguins on them. You smiled at me through the shine of a skull-shaped, multi-chamber, 2 foot bong and it was love at first site. You didn’t judge me as I purchased a 12 pack and 11 Slim Jims at 8 am on a Tuesday morning. I appreciated that.
I appreciate the fact that you continue to sell boiled peanuts even though no one wants them, and they go on, sitting in that greasy brownish water until you throw them out. You know they’ll be rejected, but you still hope, day after day. Because you believe in your peanuts, even if no one else does.
Thank you for naming your gas station ‘Gas Station’, because that really gets to the point, doesn’t it? Who the hell needs silly names when you can just be succinct? I’m not going to the “Kangaroo” or the “7-11”. I’m just going to the ‘Gas Station’. Thanks for not fancying it up and turning into one of those snobs like at the 7-11.
I appreciate the fact that you continue to hit on me, even though I’ve never been anything that resembles attractive when I came into your store. I think we both know from my purchases that I am a train wreck of a person and I appreciate the daily confidence boost.
Thanks for occasionally hooking me up with weed. I mean, it shwag weed, but still, A for effort. On the flip side, thanks for occasionally accepting weed as legal tender. While we disagree on the value of one incredibly dank hydro nugget from up north, it’s nice to know you’re willing to negotiate.
Thanks for not getting mad when I hurled in your parking lot. Oh, by the way, it was me that hurled in your parking lot.
Thanks for laughing at that slightly racist statement I made about the grape cigars you are selling. I noticed they are selling like hot cakes. Well done.
In conclusion, I know my love is unrequited. The only reason you are so nice to me is because my regular cigarette and alcohol purchases are putting your children through college. But thanks anyway. You brighten my day and you are truly making the world a better place one boiled peanut at a time.
As 2012 draws to a close, I’m forced to confront a few of the things I did right this year, as well as a few of the things I did wrong. In order to get my ducks in a row for 2013, I present the 2012 Year End Review.
I got fired. I consider this a plus as I was angling for it for awhile. Sometimes, it takes an epic fail to put you on the right path. My epic fail came in the form of getting booted from a high paying insurance job. There was a time in my life where I thought this would be catastrophic. I pictured myself living under an underpass, giving out nickel hand jobs. Turns out, I was epically wrong. Something I thought was only a dream turned out to be a lot easier to attain than I thought. I’m gonna give a little credit to myself, because I am just that good. Lesson learned: Fuck the 9 to 5. If you know you’re really good at something, then just do it. Don’t wait for someone to give you the green light. Also, by knowing you’re really good at something, you need to be able to back that up. Don’t say, “I’m quitting my day job to be a writer because EL James did it, and I’m just as good as her.” Me, on my drunkest day, with a massive brain injury, and deprived of oxygen for 7 hours, is as good as EL James. That’s not an appropriate litmus test.
I started publishing the things I wrote. Believe it or not, my blog originally started out as a diary. I didn’t publish anything I wrote because I was afraid of the backlash. Then, one day, I realized that you only get 100 or so years on the planet. Who wants to live those years being scared of what some anonymous internet idiots think? To my surprise, I gained a pretty huge outpouring of support. I wasn’t writing about anything important. I wasn’t trying to change the world. I was just pointing out what stupid fucks other people could be. Turns out a lot of other people agreed. For every twenty likes I get, I average one piece of hate mail. Ironically, the hate mail I dreaded so much before makes me laugh my ass of now. The majority of it is from internet trolls who lose interest as soon as they realize I’m not posting their bullshit. Occasionally, one of my haters becomes a fan when I smack his ass down with some logic. Yeah, I’m just that good. Also I realized this; I am approximately 4000 times smarter than any idiot who tries to send me hate mail. I’m not afraid anymore. Bring it. In fact, I’m holding an internet contest. If you can send me a piece of hate mail that actually makes me cry, you win a full color image of me flipping you off. Warning: I may choose to respond. Trust me, I get vicious. Really, really vicious.
I tried bangs. Horrible choice. They emphasized my incredibly masculine jaw. It was a 2012 epic mistake. I looked like Jay Leno with a bowl cut.
I stopped reading horoscopes. Did you ever realize that every single one tells you that you’re going to meet the love of your life or find your dream job? Apparently, horoscopes can’t predict layoffs or venereal disease, otherwise they’d say “Gemini: Today you should update your resume and avoid that guy with the cold sore.” I believe that the future can be predicted based on the events of the past. I do not believe that the future can be predicted based on the opinions of an optimistic failed English major from the University of Phoenix.
I got MRSA. Actually, I considered this one a plus. Between working 18 hours a day and raising a kid, that week in the hospital was a nice break. I have been actively licking sidewalks in the hopes of getting it again ever since.
I decided what I want to do with my life. This one is big, because I’ve been floundering for years. Everyone talks about life goals like people should just automatically know what they want. Well, I didn’t. It took a few years. But I know now. My goal? Nothing major. The number 1 spot in the New York Times bestseller list. I find that by writing something down for an audience, I feel required to accomplish it… just so I don’t have to admit I was wrong. I’m that kind of person. That’s why I keep a book countdown in my side bar to keep me on track. So mark my words; eventually, Essa Alroc will be the author of a New York Times bestselling book…even if its ghostwriting Snooki’s parenting book.
I realized that life is short. According to the Aztecs, the end of the world is just around the corner. People are murdered in senseless acts of violence every single day. So why the hell is everyone worried about their credit score? They should be worried about living every second like it’s the last one, rather than worrying about an arbitrary number that some bureaucratic idiot stamps on a piece of paper. Live. Do things wrong. Be a little bit brave.
Don’t get bangs.
Based on the results of 2012, I’m doing well. So, as for 2013; I will publish 3 more books, even if no one reads them. I will avoid that guy with the cold sore. I will not set foot in a cubicle. I will continue to live life by my terms and I will be fearless in everything I do. I won’t flinch away from hate mail. I won’t adjust my posts to be PC. I will make it on to that damn best sellers list and…
As god as my witness, I will never get bangs again.
Today, I looked slightly to the right of my computer screen and realized that my site counter for the release of my next book, Asymmetric Angels, has significantly less time on it than it used to.
When the hell did that happen?
I currently have three days to finish my next 100k word book, if I want to get it to my proofreader in time for the December 26 release. Is it done? Mostly. It’s all written in my head. It’s just getting the damn words down on paper that’s the pain in the ass.
When are they going to invent mind reading dictation software? It’s the 21st Century for Gods sake. We should all be riding around in hover cars, living in space, and I should be able to write my novels while I’m sleeping.
Anywho, I’d say all together I have about 20k words left to go. That’s not so bad. Mainly just closing up plot holes and writing the ending with enough lose ends to allow me leeway into the third and final book. But I can’t get it done. Why? Because I’m the words biggest procrastinator and I have the attention span of a baby goldfish. To give you all an idea of what I’m dealing with here, below is an inside look into my writing process.
An insanely hot girl sits at a crappy computer desk in a small suburb outside of the Orlando metro area. She scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Is this a chin hair?” Tug, tug, tug. “How the hell did it get so long? How did I not notice this before?” Tug, tug, tug. She takes her hand away from her face. “What was I doing again? Oh, yeah. Novel. Must finish novel.” She cracks her knuckles and lights another cigarette. She types a few words on the screen. Reads them out loud. Deletes them all again. Lifts her coffee mug to take a sip. “Argh! When the hell did I put a cigarette out in this!” Spits out coffee disgustedly and notices her overflowing ashtray. Stomps off to the kitchen to get new, cigarette-butt-free coffee and empty ashtray. Returns and sits back down. “Where was I again? Oh, yeah. Novel.” Begins to type when she sees a small, moving dot on her screen. “Is that an ant? Where the hell did an ant come from?” She climbs out of her chair, peering suspiciously, and begins to follow the ant as it crawls off her screen. She tracks it across her desk, down her wall and all the way to her bathroom before she loses track of it. Sighing deeply, she returns to her computer and sits back down. “What was I doing again? Oh, yeah. Novel.” She begins typing and scratches her chin thoughtfully. “Is this a chin hair?” Tug, tug, tug.
Anyway, as you all can see what I’m dealing with here, I really need to buckle down if I’m going to get this done. Until this book is safely nestled in the arms of my proofreader, I’m going to be offline, but I’ll be back soon, sharing my mild disdain and skewered world perspective for all your entertainment.
Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I really have to go take care of this chin hair.
Literally, when did the censors decide that the word ‘shit’ was totally kosher?
A few weeks back, I was catching up on this show I got addicted to. With no shame whatsoever, I will admit it was the show “Lost Girl” on the Sci-Fi channel. What can I say? I’m a total sucker for lesbian fairies with magical powers that also kick ass. Anywho, there I was, watching the show in complete fascination (mainly because it’s good, but also because I was kind of stoned) when one of the main characters dropped the s-bomb. No bleeping. No voice over. Just dropped ‘shit’ into a sentence like it was nothing. The she did it again, and again, and again. She used it as a noun. “I don’t give a shit.” Used it as an adverb. “I’m tired of your shitty attitude.” Used it as a simple exclamation. “Shit!”
I immediately pulled out my cell phone so I could call my ex and see if hell had frozen over. He told me it hadn’t, and then reminded me of the restraining order, so I hung up.
I brushed it off as a fluke, assuming that that naughty little show had gotten away with something amazing. Then, it happened on another show on another network and I realized that that rules had changed.
The censors had apparently decided that ‘shit’ was ok.
Here’s the thing. I used to work in corporate America, so I know how this shit works. Someone didn’t just say, ‘ok, shit is officially ok to say on network television now.” No, they had to have meetings. They had to have charts and graphs and statistics and studies done. In my head, I was picturing a pie graph, with colored segments reserved for ‘fuck,’ ‘cock’, ‘pussy’ and ‘shit’. Then, I pictured a group of business men sitting in a conference room, watching a Power Point presentation and having a conversation that went a lot like this;
The Boss: I’ve taken a look at the statistics, and apparently our focus group did not like pussy. They were mildly intrigued by cock, but they didn’t give a shit about shit. Thad, how do you feel about their reaction to pussy?
Thad: Of course they don’t like pussy! Did you see those pussies?
Mike: Hey, I’m offended. I don’t like pussy either.
Thad: Of course not. You prefer cock! But we’re not talking about cock. We’re talking about pussy.
Mike: I will admit that I love cock, but I also want to know if fuck is completely off the table?
Thad: Well, I like cock, but I love pussy. I’m not crazy about fuck though. What about shit?
Mike: What shit?
Thad: How do we feel about shit?
Mike: About what shit? I already told you, I like cock. You like pussy. I think we need to agree to disagree.
Thad: Fine, but I don’t agree to fuck though. Not with you there. I’ll stick to pussy.
Mike: And I’ll stick to cock.
The Boss: Now gentleman, we can all agree that we love cock and pussy. However, the focus group did not like either and they certainly hated fucking. Now how do we feel about shit?
Thad: What shit?
The Boss: Their feelings about shit. How do we feel about shit?
Thad: (throws up his hands) I don’t give a fuck!
Mike: I still love cock!
The Boss: Well, we’re certainly not giving them any fucks, but we might be able to give them Mike’s cock. However, I think we can all agree that no one gives a shit about shit.
Thad: (shaking his head sadly) Then its shit then.
Mike: I prefer cock.
The Boss: Shit.
Anyway, in my own twisted little head, this is how I imagine that the conversation went. However, I have to admit I’m a little annoyed. Not over the censorship thing. I’m not a big fan of censorship. I’m a little annoyed over what is ok, and what’s not. Think about it. Shit, a disgusting word that describes a disgusting process. Then fuck, a rough word that describes a really fun process. How the hell is shit better than fuck? I’d take a fuck over a shit any day of the week, and I’m sure most people would as well.
A few weeks back, I did a post bemoaning my inability to write a sex scene. At the time, I considered it one of the very rare areas of difficulty for me…at least in writing. I’m mainly bad at everything else I do. Dating, parenting, parallel parking, doing that thing with your thumb where it looks like you’re taking it off but you’re really not, pretty much everything is an ‘area of opportunity for me’. Except for writing. I always thought I was ok at writing.
Then today, I had to turn down a job. Why? Because I was incapable of doing the writing required for it. The subject matter? G-rated humor.
In the past, I worked for this company that runs a clever little website. You upload a photo, it uploads a caption for the photo. They hired me before to create those captions. It was actually a really fun job. 100 snarky, mean and sarcastic one liners. As I am the queen of caustic one liners, I whipped those things off like it was nothing. They were very pleased with my work and a little frightened of me as a person.
Then, they asked me to do it again. But this time, no snark. Instead, these captions would be for parents and grandparents needing baby picture captions and whatnot. “Sure,” I said. “I can do G-rated. How hard can it be?”
Famous last words.
Today, I spent 2 hours (not even exaggerating) staring at a photo of a cute little baby boy with a sad face. I stared and I waited for inspiration…and waited…and waited. Oh and inspiration came, but it came in the form of my true, blue-style humor. Every thought that came to me was a mean quip about how annoying children are, about drunk babies, about breast feeding, about people who breastfeed for way to long. Then I thought about how ugly this kid was getting the longer I looked at him. Nothing clean. Nothing nice. All hilarious. The things I said about that baby in my head today will haunt me to my grave…and also make me chuckle a little. Then, I pictured the horrified look on some grandmother’s face as her adorable grandson’s picture was plastered with the caption “Stupid broken condom!!!” and I chuckled even more.
I am a terrible person.
I never thought that I would run into an area so large that I was incapable of writing about. Just as I was working thought my sex scene issues, with the help of a large amount of tequila and many, many photos of Julian McMahon, I ran into an entire genre that isn’t just difficult for me to write. It’s impossible.
Here’s the thing; I was born a cynic. When my parents took me to see E.T., two year old Essa stormed out while everyone was sobbing, declaring that it was ‘sappy bullshit’. I don’t get the warm fuzzies. I don’t believe in happy endings (unless they are the kind you get at an unlicensed massage parlor) and I flinch if someone mentions feelings. It was how I was designed. For the most part, it’s done ok for me. Then this happens.
I’d like to say I’m going to work on it, but I probably won’t, because I know it’s a futile task. I will never be classy and I will never be clean. I will always be wrapped in a hard shell of cynicism and I will never giggle over baby shoes or tell a joke suitable for a church picnic. Even if I tried, it would all ring false and it wouldn’t be funny, it would just be sad.
Some of my favorite authors are clean. I absolutely love Dave Barry, but I could never be like him. His posts are family friendly and I am the exact opposite. I’m for ‘restricted audiences’. I’m the girl you don’t invite to the wedding because she gets in a drunken fight. I’m the girl you don’t ask to come to the funeral, because crying skeeves me out. I’m the girl that doesn’t get an invitation to the baby shower, because at the last one, I gave the expectant mother a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of gin. I am not ‘family friendly’. I am ‘family enemy’ and there is really nothing I can do but embrace it.
God bless those who appreciate blue humor.
***On another note, not related to my suckish writing, I released a novella today that is wildly inappropriate, filled with profanity, but lacks the sex scene that I am not yet comfortable enough to write. You can check out my new book, The Apology, here.***
Yeah, get it. Hate mail I mean. Not a ton, but the occasional angry email or comment on my page. I consider it a hazard of the profession…the profession of being awesome. Haters gonna hate, nothing I can do about that. I actually get enough hate mail to require a folder for it in my email. It was supposed to be labeled ‘threats’ but I missed the ‘h’ and labeled it ‘treats’ instead. It seems to work, so I’m leaving it.
However, in my interest in helping everyone do everything better (even sending me anonymous threats and hate mail on the internet), let me give all the haters out there some tips and tricks to help you hate me just a little bit better.
1. Get my fucking gender right. For the last goddamn time, I am a GIRL! Seriously, shift your eyes slightly to the right and you will see my smoking hot picture. Just because I’m hilarious doesn’t mean that I have a penis. I will take your angry diatribes and threats a lot more seriously if you actually use the right gender when you’re calling me names.
2. Why do you all keep offering to send me pictures of yourself? Seriously, I get this offer in every angry comment. Why the hell would I need your picture? Is it to show me how scary and threatening you are? Is it so I can carry it around in my wallet and show it to strangers that I meet on the bus? “Oh, this is Jack. He sends me hate mail on the internet.” Look, I know what you fucking look like. You look like the kind of person who sends someone drunken threats at 3 in the morning. Sweaty, balding, missing teeth and at least forty pounds overweight.
3. This is an IP address. IP: 18.104.22.168, 99-7-40-21.lightspeed.rcsntx.sbcglobal.net. I’m bringing that up because any comment you send me comes with that attached (usually along with a fake or real email address). Even if I don’t approve the comment, it still has your IP address attached to it. There’s nothing you can do about that. I just thought you’d like to know that you’re not as anonymous as you think you are.
4. Try reading the article before you get pissed off about it. A lot of my hate mail comes from this post “No, You Don’t Have PTSD, You’re Just a Pussy”. Yeah, I know. The title is inflammatory. It’s supposed to be. If I didn’t want people to read my blog, I’d post knitting tips and brownie recipes. If you would actually read the fucking article, you might just find that all the retarded points you’re trying to make in your rambling, moderately incoherent response have already been made IN MY ARTICLE. Read, then respond, not the other way around, you fucking idiot.
5. I’m not afraid of you. Threats to do me bodily harm or dare me to call you a name to your face mean shit to me. I have a license to carry and an itchy trigger finger. If you could manage to get your four hundred pound ass off the computer chair and somehow actually track me down, then show up at my house, you can fully expect to leave in a bag, with a few more holes than you showed up with. Seriously, it wouldn’t even be a chore. Killing an idiot is on my bucket list.
6. Keep your angry pissed off comments short. If you’re posting a six paragraph response filled with four letter words, do you really think I’m reading it? No, I’m deleting it. That’s another thing you may notice. I actually moderate my board. Essaland is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship. If you want to write angry ramblings on the internet, start your own damn blog. I know it’s not the same, because people actually read my page and no one is going to yours, but I can’t help that. My blog is not your sounding board. It’s mine and it’s doing great without your opinions.
7. I don’t give a shit about your personal problems. If you’re taking issue with something I’ve written because you think it might vaguely apply to you; guess what, that’s why I wrote it. If you have a problem with me making fun of you because you’re faking PTSD to get social security disability, or you wound up on my page because you were looking for child pornography, I’m fucking GLAD you’re offended. I don’t need a 12 page explanation on why I don’t understand your problems because I don’t care about your problems. Saying it again; I don’t care about your problems.
8. Fucking spell check. That’s right, spell check. If every other word in your post is spelled wrong, I’m not reading it. I’m correcting it and sending it back for you to do over.
In conclusion, if your going to send me hate mail, that’s fine. Just do it right. In addition, if you are reading this post and feel the urge to post a 16 page comment on what a cunt (that’s right, cunt, not asshole or dick) I am, rest assured, I will make sure that it is promptly deleted…right after I post your email in the NSA section of Craigslist with a request for as many cock pictures as possible.