I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire
The ring of fire

I just jammed a screwdriver in my fucking ear to get this song out of my head and guess what? It’s still there. God I hate it when a new Johnny Cash movie comes out.

Look, it’s not that I don’t like Johnny Cash’s music. I actually love it. I’m a big fan of his music. Whenever I need to get really depressed, I only need to listen to the song “Hurt’ a few times to get myself in a near suicidal mood. I actually like his version way better than the NIN one.

What can I say? It’s great for when I need to write a death scene in a book.

As much as I love Johnny Cash’s songs and wish they would play them more on the radio, I’ve had just about enough of the movies being made about him. Why? Because I love Johnny Cash’s music, but I absolutely hate him as a person.

I’m just sick of movies being made that sanctify this guy. Johnny Cash wasn’t some tortured genius. In fact, he was kind of an asshole.

In the movies, his first wife, Vivian Liberto, is usually portrayed as a shrew because she dared to ask Johnny to stop doing drugs and spend more time with the family. Oh, and not to stick his fucking dick into everything that moved. In real life, Cash responded by taking off on a ‘business trip’ in June of 1966 and not coming back. Liberto filed for divorce in August and Johnny went back on tour, presumably to fuck June Carter some more.  But in the movies, Vivian is portrayed as a ball breaking bitch whose sole goal was to destroy Johnny’s career. June is the long suffering saint who only undid her chastity belt for her wedding night with Johnny.

Right…

FYI, “I Walk the Line” was about Vivian. It wasn’t about June. And it was a big old pile of bullshit, cause dude clearly was not ‘walking the line’. Unless he was talking about the white line on the side of the road during a DWI stop. The song might have been more aptly title “I snort the line.” At least then it would have been accurate.

Also, he was a poser. The dude swaggered around with this ‘outlaw’ image but never got arrested for anything more than drunken disorderly and trespassing. Outlaw my ass. I did worse than that on my way to check the mail this afternoon.

Why do I see movie after movie getting made about Johnny Cash, while all these other (much better) artists get ignored? Where the fuck is BB King’s life story? What about George Harrison? Oh, sorry Hollywood, I guess you were too busy making another movie about Johnny Cash. Well, fuck me. Oh, Jewel is going to be in this one?

Double fuck me.

Again, I’m not trashing Cash as an artist. I love his music. But at the same time, I think we all need a little perspective about this guy. He never ‘killed a man in Reno just to watch him die’. He didn’t ‘walk the line’, and he didn’t ‘wear black for the poor and beaten down’. He wore it because his publicist told him to. Stop with a new movie about his life every few years and maybe try focusing on an artist who deserves to have their story told.

On the upside, I got that damn song out of my head.

Let me explain the evolution of a ‘I didn’t come here to argue” message.

Step #1; Moron winds up on my page. I’m not entirely sure how, as half the time, I’m surprised these morons can even work the internet. My guess would be they accidentally landed here after repeatedly slamming their face into the keyboard.

Step #2; Moron pulls up one of my more offensive posts (or a completely innocuous one, like my bully article), reads it and gets upset.

Step #3; Moron types out an argumentative response that fully demonstrates their level of brain damage.

Step #4; I return from a night of vigilante crime fighting and check out my comments. Seeing that moron’s comment is not an outright hate comment, I allow it past moderation.

Step #5; As moron decided to argue, I respond with an argument of my own. I do not change my tone when arguing and I hold nothing back.

Step #6; Moron comes back, usually the following day after crying themselves to sleep over my response. They leave a weepy hurt feeling message and somehow slip in the statement “I didn’t come here to argue”.

My response is always, ‘yes you did.”

Here’s the thing. When someone argues with my opinion on my page, I respond. Why do I respond? BECAUSE IT’S MY FUCKING PAGE!!!! Of course I’m going to respond. Chances are, if I wrote an article about something, its because I feel passionately about it. I’m not going to suddenly turn around and change my opinion, after spending two god damn hours writing about it, because someone else comes to my page and tells me I’m wrong.

And when you post something, telling me I’m wrong, that’s starting an argument. Let me give you the definition, just in case its unclear.

ar·gu·ment  

1. An exchange of diverging or opposite views, typically a heated or angry one: “I’ve had an argument with my father”.
2. A reason or set of reasons given with the aim of persuading others that an action or idea is right or wrong.

If you don’t want an argument, here’s an idea. Don’t start one. However, if you do start one, don’t suddenly deny that you were trying to start an argument when you realize that I’m a hell of a lot smarter than you and also, incredibly mean.

If you’re disagreeing with me, chances are I already think you’re an idiot. But when you disagree with me, then try to take it back by saying ‘you don’t want to argue’ you look like an idiot and a pussy.

Don’t be that guy. If you’re going to make yourself look like a moron on my page, at least stand by your moronic opinion. I can guarantee you I’ll still win. I’ve never lost an argument on my page and I never will.

But If you don’t want to argue, then don’t post an argumentative comment. Just go look at some stupid fucking inspirational internet memes instead.

When the guy can write in full sentences, I head on over to their profile page to seek if it was a fluke. Whenever it’s not, and I read everything their looking for, I shut it down because I know that I’m nothing close to what they are looking for. Let me give you a few tidbits from some of the guy’s who have messaged me;

I’m looking for a girl who’s interested in getting into the outdoors a bit, camping, canoeing, rock climbing
I love anything outdoors, I call it my church.
I love the outdoors. … I don’t want a gym rat but you at least have to like hiking trail riding, some kind of outdoors activities
As an accomplished outdoors-man, I can literally survive in the wild with very few items
You should contact me if you love the outdoors

Yeah, because my idea of fun is traipsing through a Florida swamp in 105 degree weather, praying that the kinds of mosquitoes biting me aren’t the kind that carry malaria. With all these outdoorsy guys out there, I would assume that the Everglades are just plain filled with men living off the land, hiking, fishing, canoeing and participating in hand to hand combat with alligators.

They’re not, by the way. They’re filled with Ukrainian dudes in linen suits dumping bodies in the dead of the night.

I only know a very small group of people who are really into the outdoors. In fact, they’re so fucking outdoorsy, they spend all their time outdoors. They’re called homeless people and I pay rent every month to avoid being like them.

When I go to a man’s profile, and I see 11 paragraphs about how a guy is looking for a girl who loves the great outdoors, hiking, fishing, camping, etc., all I can think is “doesn’t sound to me like you’re looking for a girlfriend. Actually, it sounds to me like you’re looking for a lumberjack.”

‘Brawny’- Cause nothing screams ‘I love the outdoors’ like killing a tree to make a convenience product.

I also love the fact that very few of these great outdoors lovers see any irony in the fact that they’re online dating. If they’re so damn outdoorsy, shouldn’t they be outside, living off the land and looking for their ideal mate squatting in a bush after she finishes off a hefty dinner of raw squirrel?

Half the time, I think these outdoorsy profiles are just a smoke screen to throw off gold diggers and high maintenance chicks. Regardless, I’m not answering because I believe in brutal honesty. And when a guy asks me if I enjoy camping, I’m forced to respond that sleeping outside on the ground is my idea of hell.

And I don’t really care if that makes me high maintenance. I guess I just wasn’t the lumberjack they were looking for.

The Bodily Function Police, Would You Please…Just go Straight to Hell?

By; Tom Nardone, of I am Tom Nardone

People tell me that I sometimes look unhappy or angry about something. They think that I’m not happy. There seems to be no shortage of people in this world that feel the need to alter my mood and/or my actions

I don’t mind if one of my friends say “Hey Tom what’s wrong?”, or “Hey Tom are you alright?” I understand that they love me, and they want to see me happy. What I do mind is when people, friend or otherwise, simply tell me; “Smile!”, “cheer up!”, “it’s not that bad.”, or “how come you never smile?” That is what really gives me the red ass

This girl started at work a while back. She is a complete ditz that has been trading on her looks all her life. All of the guys at work are all (gaga) for her. I, on the other hand, am not. I do not give a shit what she looks like. I have nothing but contempt for such people. For days every time I would walk by her, she would tell me to smile, and for days I just let it go.

She made the mistake of saying, in her ditzy sweet voice, of telling me to smile one time too many. I felt it was time for this bullshit conversation to come to a conclusion.

Officer Ditz; Hey, why don’t you ever smile?”

Tom Nardone; This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I looked out the window, and watched my son, who was waiting for the school bus, pick up a stray puppy by it’s neck and stare into its’ eyes as he squeezed the life from it. So is it OK with you if I don’t smile today?”

Would you like to know what she said? She said the same thing you would say. NOTHING!! That is the only thing anyone says when told a story like that. This was beautiful. She looked at me and nodded her head almost violently, as if she hoped I was finished talking to her. She did not smile herself for the rest of the day.

I was pleased to see that the message got to her. My son did not really do this, but that doesn’t matter. I solved both of our problems. I don’t have to listen to any more of her bullshit, and she will definitely think twice before ever telling me to alter my facial expressions for the rest of our time together. I will be surprised if I ever have to listen to her speak to me again about anything.

I used to have a job where I went in at 4am. One thing that everyone does who gets up that early in the morning is yawn. I don’t know why we yawn. It is just what we do. It is in no way offensive it is not rude. A yawn is one of the few bodily functions that have absolutely no enemies. Everybody loves a good yawn. That is, everyone except this one particular asshole. Just about every damned, morning this redneck, inbred, hillbilly, son of a bitch, would catch me in the act of one of my early morning yawns. He would always say “It’s too early to start that shit”

What the fuck does that even mean? I knew that I would have to help this man too. I was convinced that it was not ever going to end, and I knew that I was unwilling to stop yawning. I felt it was my duty as a caring coworker to help him to stop this douchebaggery that he was hopelessly a prisoner to. This was my solution.

Officer Hillbilly; It’s too early to start that shit”

Tom Nardone; Hey listen I am sorry about the random yawns every morning. It is obvious that you care about me, and you want to be involved with my bodily functions. I would like to extend you an invitation to join me this afternoon for one that I think you will really enjoy. I really think today is the best day for you to see this one, since I ate at El Sombreros last night and ordered the sampler platter. If you are free after lunch, please meet me in the men’s room I usually prefer stall #4. I think this is something you won’t want to miss.

He wasn’t pleased and he did decline my invitation. He never really spoke much to me after that, which to my mind was a huge win win. I wasn’t quite satisfied though. I would come in early and if I did not feel a yawn coming, then I would fake one. You should have seen the confusion on that dumb son of a bitches face.

I don’t think it is too much to ask that I be allowed to smile when I am happy, or yawn when I am tired. I will not tolerate assholes who wish to fuck with this. Just so we are clear if you tell me to smile, then yes, that alone, makes you an asshole.

You owe these people shit. Don’t waste your time explaining yourself to them. As fun as it might be, you don’t have to give them an elaborate explanation, like I did. There are other ways to help them. Sometimes just a short “Fuck You” is all it takes to get them on the proper path.

My body is my playground. All the toys and their functions are owned and operated by me, and any other person I grant access to. I decide what the rules are and I decide what toys are available to what person. I share them when, and if I feel like it. If you have a problem with this then you can to your playground.

If, while watching Spartacus, or Game of Thrones, there should be a sex scene and I feel the need to pause the show to take care of a sudden need, then I will do so. Only one person votes and that is me. I always win.

When I conclude my bathroom business, and it is time to do the paper work; I and I alone will make the decision to wipe from front to back or from back to front. It is my ass. It is my choice.

If while I am working outside on a hot July Day, and my ass begins to itch, then fell free to turn your head if you don’t want to watch the show, but this itch is going away right now.

I think that is enough examples

It is as if their lives are so empty inside that they must see me smile to fill some void. I am sorry if they have some hidden desire to live vicariously through me. They should go and live an abundant life where all they can seem to do is walk around and smile at every one they see, and when they get that figured out, maybe they will be in a better frame of mind to counsel the rest of the world with our facial expression problems.

These people have a sickness. They have an ailment and I have the cure. It is the only thing that I am aware of that will cures this disease every time it is administered. That is a dose of Tom Nardone. It’s the only thing I carry in my bag.

If I am not smiling, then maybe I am upset. If you are a friend of mine, then I don’t mind you trying to help me or inquire as to what you can do for me. I appreciate that kind of interaction. Sometimes knowing that someone cares is enough. Knowing that you have a friend who is there for you; can make the problem seem like a more fixable circumstance.

No one that gives a shit about you will tell you to be happy. People who do this, are every bit as much an asshole as someone who would fart in a parked car with the windows up.

I am Tom Nardone, and you are welcome.

So, obviously, I started wondering why I continued making a $300 monthly car payment.

I’m a practical girl, most of the time. What I know of being a practical girl is that paying the equivalent of $30 to drive to the store a few times a month is an idiotic idea. While I enjoy the freedom of owning a car, it isn’t really the most practical option for me. So I decided to sell my old car, take the equity built in and buy a new one.

The first half started out easy. I took my car to Carmax (after I got the Kelly Blackbook value and ran NADA). They offered me $400 more than the value I got, so I accepted. After they paid off my lien holder, I had 3K in my pocket.

3k to go and find a piece of shit beater designed to drive me less than one mile per week. It didn’t need to be pretty. It didn’t need to be a gas saver. It just needed to be able to get me from point A to point B. So I headed out the door to go used car shopping.

I’m almost sure my first mistake was going shopping without a penis.

I showed up at the lot of ‘Joseph’s Autos’. There, he had at least 5 different vehicles that were still running and all were under my budgeted price.  I spotted a Dodge Stratus with minimal cosmetic damage and asked to take it for a test drive. The douche then proceeded to jump start the fucking thing in front of me before handing me the keys.

Look, I know I’m blonde and I know the stereotypes, but let me explain something to you all. I guarantee my IQ is at least 70 points higher than the IQ of an idiot frat boy who ever told a dumb blond joke. Just because I don’t look smarter than you doesn’t mean I’m not a hell of a lot smarter than you.

And I would have to be stone cold retarded to purchase the title to a vehicle that had just been jump started in front of me.

So I moved on. The next car was a Dodge Neon. Don’t even get me started on Dodge Neons. You ever look under the hood of one of those things? It looks like a fucking Tiddlywinks factory. Everything is made of plastic. Against my better judgment, I tried it anyway.

I did what I always do on a test drive. I cranked the air conditioner and stepped on the gas. Let me explain why.

There’s a common little trick you can do that will get the ‘check engine’ light to turn off in almost any vehicle. Flood the engine with oil. This will muddy up the waters enough to make the electrical system think everything is kosher. In decent weather, you can get around 5 hours of perfectly smooth driving.

Then the pressure starts to build.

Once the car gets the pressure test…i.e. running on an engine overloaded with oil, on a 90 degree day in Orlando, in stop and go traffic…it will overheat. It will start to smoke and the car will turn off entirely. This is exactly what the piece of shit neon did to me.

Luckily, I was smart enough to take my car on a test drive past my apartment complex. So when the piece of shit broke down, it broke down in my parking lot.

We took a cab back to the dealership. I tossed the keys in his face with a helpful “your piece of shit broke down on the test drive. Here’s the address where I left it.”

The douche then proceeded to blame me for overtaxing the engine on his 125k mile + piece of shit Dodge. His exact words were ‘well, I can’t blame you for breaking the engine. You didn’t know what to do when it overheated.”

At that point, I was too angry and sputtering for words. Luckily, I brought my mom. Mama Alroc immediately responded; “so you’re not supposed to roll down the windows, crank the heater, put the car in neutral and take your foot off the gas?”

Before you Google it, that is fucking textbook of what you’re suppose to do when your car overheats.  And that is exactly what I did before I left that jimmy rigged piece of shit in a Lake Mary parking lot.

Of course, that wasn’t enough. As I was walking out off the lot, waving a double middle finger goodbye, one of the douche salesmen offered to let me test drive the previously shitty Dodge Stratus again. In his words ‘a spark plug was loose’.

FYI; Once a spark plug comes loose, it never stops being loose. Guarantee, within six months, you will need a new engine.

I told him I didn’t need a car anymore. I’d rather fucking walk. Mama Alroc was just as helpful, informing the salesman that being born women didn’t render us retarded.

Used car salesmen out there, yes, I am a girl. Yes, I am blond. But when I come to your fucking dealership I don’t need you to point me in the direction of ‘the red cars’ or ‘the blue cars’.

I’m smarter than that. I was a car insurance adjuster for ten years. I could tell you what a car is worth just by looking at it. I know what a carburetor is. I know what an engine is supposed to look like. I can spot the difference between frame damage and cosmetic damage from a mile away.

If you’re looking to screw me, then leave your number. If you’re cute enough I might consider. But the only kind of getting screwed I don’t accept is the getting screwed out of money part.

I know you think you’re smarter than me because you spent twelve hours getting your mechanics certification. The fact that you think that makes me laugh my ass off. I’m not giving you 3k on something that is nothing more than $750 worth of scrap metal.   I’m not financing a ten year old car at a 20% interest rate and giving you $1000 down.

If you’re lucky, all I’ll give you is a hefty kick in the groin.

Being born pretty didn’t render me retarded. I know what shit is worth. Unfortunately, I can’t get a douche car salesman to take me seriously because of that. As that’s the case, Essa quits driving. To be 100% honest, I never liked driving much to being with

Oh, and Joseph’s Auto on 17-92 in Longwood Florida, welcome to your first SEO hit. In case you didn’t know, search engine optimization is how people who use the internet gain information about your company. You didn’t have a webpage, so I figured I’d help you out. Now, whenever you Google the name of your dealership in my zip code, my review will be the first thing to come up. I’m sorry if that fucked things up for you.

But what would I know? I’m just a dumb blond who doesn’t know shit about technology.

But today’s post isn’t about my inability to quit smoking. Today’s post instead, is about the over the top, anti-smoking movement. Cashiers who feel like they have the right to tell me to quit every time I go to the store. The disgusting, judgmental, anti-smoking commercials. Some of my more obnoxious friends who send me pictures of blacked lungs and urge me to quit.

Simply stated, when someone does that, it just makes me want to smoke more out of spite.

The other night, I was at the gas station. I was buying my standard pack of 305 menthols and it was my unfortunate luck that my favorite gas station, aka Gas Station, was closed and I had to go to a Kangaroo instead. I hate the Kangaroo because they have one of those judgmental cashiers who feels the need to lecture me every time I come into the store.

He does this without any irony whatsoever; despite the fact that he is a 60+ cashier working for minimum wage at a gas station in the ghetto part of Sanford. I mean really, if anyone lacks the qualifications to give out life advice, it’s this guy.

Last night was the final straw. As he was winding up for his cancer statistic lecture, I cut him off.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Vacant look. He seemed surprised that I was speaking.

“Those chicken wings over there, the ones that you fry in sausage grease and serve with a side of mayo, who do you sell them to?”

“Uh,” apparently, the guy couldn’t form a coherent sentence without spewing anti-smoking rhetoric, “everyone, I guess.”

“Fat people?”

“Yup.”

“People with bad skin?”

“Yup.”

“People with potential heart problems?”

“I guess so.”

“Hmph,” now for the home run. “Now, do they all get a lecture about the dangers of cholesterol, acne and heart disease when they order them?”

‘Uhhh,” I could literally see the gears turning in this guys head as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

“Or do you just serve them what they fucking ordered and shut up?” He is stunned. “I come here for cigarettes, coffee that tastes like dirt and the occasional 40 ounces of malt liquor when I feel like going 90’s ghetto style. What I don’t come here for is medical advice from a 60 year old cashier.”

“Uhhh,” Uh oh, I think I broke him.

“My family can’t convince me to quit smoking. My doctor can’t convince me to quit smoking. Hell, even the Surgeon Fucking General can’t convince me to quit smoking. Why the hell do you think you’re going to have more luck? I mean, do you really think I’m going to walk out of this store after one of your half assed lectures and be like ‘wow, that random dude that I don’t give a shit about made some great points. I shall immediately quit a highly addictive habit that I have had for the past 20 years because he told me about lung cancer statistics.’”

I stomped out of the store, cigarettes in hand, leaving a stunned cashier and more than a few flabbergasted customers watching me.

I do enjoy a dramatic scene.

But it got me to thinking, what is it about smoking that makes people think they are justified in lecturing perfect strangers? Really? Do you see me running around, slapping donuts out of fat people’s hands? No you don’t, because what they want to put into their body is their business. But when it comes to smoking, the same social niceties don’t seem to apply.

I am an unfailingly polite smoker. I don’t light up in enclosed spaces. I always put at least 10 feet between myself and a group when I’m smoking in public. I don’t toss my butts on the ground. I actually put them out with my finger and shove them in my pocket. It’s an old Army habit.

But regardless of how polite I am about my smoking, I’m guaranteed to get at least one anti-smoking avenger dropping down in front of me with a “you know those things are bad for you, right?”

Really? Nah, you’re putting me on.

Look, I know they’re bad for me. I’m not a friggen idiot. I’m an addict. But I’m sure everyone out there has a bad habit or two they’d like to get rid of as well. The difference between them and me is that I don’t call them out on it.

Until now.

So here’s what’s going to happen from now on world, because I’m sick of your bullshit. If you decide to accost me while I’m innocently smoking a cigarette, to offer me some helpful advice, I’m going to offer some helpful advice of my own.

I’m going to point out how you could stand to lose a few pounds to avoid heart disease or how the regular use of sun screen could really get rid of those crow’s feet. I’m going to point out how you could probably avoid STD’s by not dressing like a whore and how when you chew your fingernails, you might as well be tossing someone’s salad in a maximum security prison.

Then, I will stand back, smugly smoking my cigarette and wait for you to thank me for my helpful, helpful advice.

What can I say? I’m a giver. You’re welcome world.

***Also, douche who went to the trouble of emailing me to tell me you hate my site but read it every day, go fuck yourself. It’s a little weird that your read something you hate every fucking day and I’m sure this shout out will be the highlight of your week. I hope you fucking choke on it, stalker. ***

Believe it or not, the incredibly realistic above picture was not how I came into existence. Instead, it was all because of this lady.

And today, on this special day, I want to tell you a little about my mom, as well as thank her for more than a few motherly tasks. Like giving birth to me when I was a baby and not killing me when I was a teenager.

My mom is a lot like my dog. She’s little, easy to pick up and utterly fascinated by squirrels. When there is a particularly large squirrel outside, she and not my dog, is responsible for altering us to its presence. Usually with a very loud “look at the size of that squirrel!!!’ shrieked out at 900 decibels whenever I am suffering from an early morning hangover.

My mom is a practical joker. One time, when I was very little, she hid under the covers of my bed and grabbed my leg just as I was going to sleep for the night. She once replaced my cousins Vodka with vinegar. She even once faked an asthma attack to make her boyfriend feel guilty for trying to play his own prank.

Ok, so that last one was my idea.

She is an unconventional mother. She is the first one to like posts I write about marijuana use and promiscuous sex. She does not hassle me to to ‘settle down and meet someone nice’ because she knows there is more to life than that. Some parents say they would be proud of their kids even if they worked as street cleaners. When my mom says that, I know its true. When I got fired from my job in insurance, she celebrated right along with me. When I wrote my first book, her response (after being the first one to buy it) was, ‘I think you found what you were always meant to do.’ That sentence meant more to me than any other good review I got.

She’s also very helpful. Her daily efforts are the reason my son and I are not living in a large garbage heap instead of an apartment. One time in high school, when I vomited all over myself after too many Boons Farms, she’s the one that cleaned be up and helped me to bed.

She’s slightly psychic as well. One of her ‘be careful today’ statements is enough to keep me from leaving the house. The last time my brother heard that one, he got hit by a car. The last time I heard it, I got alcohol poisoning.

Anyway, when I came to the mother lottery, I got lucky. I got a mother who would drop anything for her kids, is endlessly supportive, and came without the nagging gene that some mothers seem to have.

I think TuPac said it best;

Even as a crack fiend, mama*
You always was a black queen, mama*
There’s no way I can pay you back
By the plan is to show you that I understand
You are appreciated

Happy Mother’s Day mom.

*Please note that my mother is neither a crack fiend nor black.

My short answer was easy. Technical issues. If you work from a proxy like me, then you know what a bitch commenting and liking can be. WordPress needs me to sign in? Ok. WordPress needs me to verify my security questions? What fucking questions? What’s my mother’s middle name? How the fuck should I know? I was drunk when I set this account up. Eh, fuck it. I give up.

Then I got to thinking about it and I got paranoid…and a little annoyed. I came to WordPress to write, not to read. While I admit, I do enjoy the other bloggers anecdotes out there, I rarely comment. I don’t feel like I should be required to. I’d rather just read the stories and laugh quietly to myself. Is it completely necessary that I come up with a comment about their stories? Does my page view only matter when I interact?”

Then paranoia kicked in. Is my page just being followed by a bunch of people who don’t give a shit about what I write? Is anyone even reading this? Or am I just getting comments and likes from people who expect quid pro quo?

Quid pro quo. This for that. I.e. “I’ll read your blog if you read mine”. I.e. “I’ll buy your book if you buy mine”. Really? Is this what my page is? Because, I’ll be honest with you. I worked really hard on this page. All my blogs come out of a genuine place. They come from genuine stories that I lived though. I was hoping to entertain. .

But apparently, I was just playing part in a pyramid scheme.

Guys, I have to tell you, if you are just coming to my page and interacting to get me to come to yours, it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to leave comments on your blogs and half the time, I don’t read your blogs.

Why? Because I’m fucking writing. Let me make this clear. I’m not here to review swap. If you’re a self published author looking for reviews, you’re not getting them from me. If we work in the same genre, then chances are, any review I write is getting deleted anyway. Amazon is cracking down on that shit. If you want to buy and review my books, good for you. If you expect a review in return, you’re fishing in the wrong hole.

I don’t work that way.

My favorite writer in the whole wide world is a man by the name of Maddox the Pirate. You do not understand how much this dude rocks out loud until you read his stuff.

Now guess how many times I interacted on his page. If your response is 0, then you’re in the ballpark.

I don’t go to Maddox’s page to get something from him. I go to his page to be entertained. I don’t go with the expectation that he is going to read my blog and follow me back. I go there because he genuinely makes me laugh my ass off. It doesn’t matter to me if Maddox know I exist. I’m not expecting a kickback or a follow. When I go to his page, I expect one thing.

To laugh. He never disappoints.

I want my page to be like Maddox’s page. I want you to come here to laugh. I want you here to be amused. I want you to say “she says what I was thinking in my head and couldn’t say out loud.”

I do not want you coming here expecting Quid Pro Quo. If you’re just expecting Quid Pro Quo, you’re in the wrong place. That’s not how I roll. Maybe I’ll read your blog post. Maybe I won’t. Regardless, you’ll never be able to tell whether I did at all.

So if you’re expecting some kind of pyramid scheme, where I read your posts and you read mine, then you’re in the wrong place. I was hoping for fans. I was hoping for people who actually enjoyed the way I write.

Maybe I would have been better off peddling Acia Berries.

If you’re a lurker and you’re just here to read, then you’re awesome. I love my lurkers. If you’re a regular commenter who comments because they have something to say, then continue on. If you’re just some random person, claiming to like me, but only trying to see what you can get from me, then go fuck yourself.

You aren’t getting shit. I’m better than that. My writing stands on its own merits. Take your likes and shove them.

I’m here to write. Not to play Quid Pro Quo.

That’s what I say every time I see my copy of ‘The Great Gatsby’. Actually, that’s what I say every time I see a novel where the main protagonist is a rich white guy. A tortured rich white guy, no less.

I’ve heard this glorified paperweight occasionally referred to as “a great American novel’. I actually think it was just a great excuse for F. Scott Fitzgerald to go to parties at rich people’s houses and pretend to do research.

Let me give you a run down if you’ve never managed to make it through all 218 pages.

A nondescript everyman, Nick, moves to Long Island. He meets Jay Gatsby, who is the 1920’s equivalent of a crackhead who won the lottery. He later learns that Gatsby is in love with Daisy, a bored, and slightly slutty rich housewife. Daisy is married to the pompous douche bag, Tom Buchannan. Tom’s hobbies involve hating on Gatsby, ignoring his wife, and beating up hookers.

Later, we are shocked by an amazing twist. The previously penniless Gatsby, who became rich overnight, is involved in organized crime! Seriously, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Despite how interesting this might have been, it’s never really delved into at all.

Instead, Gatsby and Daisy accidentally run over Tom Buchannan’s hooker. Daisy was driving, but she leaves Gatsby holding the bag. Gatsby gets shot by the hooker’s husband and dies. Then, everyone goes to the funeral.

Also, there was a professional golfer, who might have been a professional golfing cheater, named Jordan. She was a throwaway character who did nothing to enhance the story. My guess would be F. Scott Fitzgerald was trying to impress a chick by putting her into his novel.

The End

That’s it, in a nutshell. Am I saying the book is terrible? No. Am I saying it’s anything special? Again, no. Much like ‘Catcher in the Rye’, I’ve never gotten peoples obsession with this book.

And now their making another fucking movie about it. So now, I’m going to be forced to listen to people, who have never even cracked the spine on the novel, talk about the symbolism. They’ll talk about how it represented the US during the prohibition. They’ll take about how it displayed the dangers of excess and I’ll roll my eyes.

You want to read a good story about rich people being crazy, get yourself a copy of “Valley of the Dolls”. If you want to read a 1920’s version of “I Know What You Did Last Summer” with characters you don’t give a shit about, then pick up a copy of The Great Gatsby.

Me, I’m going to wait until the movie comes out on video and then fast forward through the entire thing, hoping to at least get some full frontal nudity from Leonardo DiCaprio.

It’s a local call from the 407 area code so I answer it even though I don’t recognize the number. I take a chance on answering it, just in case it’s an emergency, like my dealer calling me to let me know he got his hands on some red, white and blue…the most patriotic of all marijuana strains.

“Hello?”

“Hey Essa, it’s Nelson?”

“Who?” I’m lost. The only Nelson I can think of is the one on The Simpsons. I doubt it’s him calling me, on account of him being a cartoon and all.

“Nelson Lastnameredacted? Kristen’s friend?”

Still lost, even though I do know a Kristen. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“But this is Essa, right?”

“Fine, you have the wrong Essa.” I am quickly tiring of this conversation and am preparing to hang up the phone.

The mysterious Nelson is starting to sound a little annoyed. “I’m pretty sure I have the right one. How many Essa’s are there?”

It’s a decent question so I give it some thought. “Um, there’s me and there’s an Essa University in England. Maybe you’re thinking of that one.” My finger hovers over the disconnect button.

“I doubt that’s the case, considering I never dated an Essa University.”

Damn this fucker is persistent. I start to think back, my mind going through many blurry faces. “Sorry Nelson, you’re not ringing a bell.”

A frustrated sigh, followed by an uncomfortable throat clearing. “You sure? We did sleep together.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’ll narrow it down.” I run though many still blurry faces in my head, when suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Wait, you’re not calling to tell me you have Chlamydia or something, right?”

Nelson sputters, “What? No, I was calling you to ask if you want to go out on my boat this weekend.”

I screwed a dude with a boat? Nice. I give myself a mental high-five. “Depends, describe yourself.”

“You really don’t remember me?”

“What can I say, I’m incredibly promiscuous. Don’t act like you didn’t know, that’s probably half the reason you’re calling me.”

He says nothing, so I know I’m right.

“Still waiting on that description.”

“Um, yeah.” He clears his throat again and I realize I’m making him uncomfortable. I can’t say I care. I mean, apparently I slept with this dude and he never called me. Now he wants to pop back out of the woodwork and he has the balls to be annoyed with me for not remembering him? “I’m 5’9”, brown hair, brown eyes. Thin.”

“You’ve just described ever dude I’ve ever dated.” I decide to go Law and Order style. “Any distinguishing characteristics.”

“What?”

“Moles, tattoos, birthmarks. Anything that I could use to pick you out in a line up?”

“Oh,” he pauses, “I have a tattoo. It’s an American flag.”

“Where?”

“On my lower back.”

“Fuck,” I blurt out, “tell me I didn’t know about that when I slept with you!” I mentally take back the high five I just gave to myself. ‘Dude with tramp stamp’ immediately cancels out ‘dude with boat’. Any girl knows that.

“No, but you did make fun of it for most of the next day.” He’s sounding annoyed again and I decide to shut it down.

“As well I should have.” I sigh, “Listen, chances are, if I’m having this much of a hard time remembering you, we didn’t click or you were terrible in bed. Either way, it’s been at least 6 months since I last had sex. That tells me that you waited a minimum of 6 months to call me. My guess would be much, much longer, because if I screwed a dude with a tattoo on his lower back six months ago, I would still be making fun of him today.”

“Wow,” Nelson sounds less annoyed and instead a little chagrined by my outburst. “Listen, I meant to call. I’ve been busy…”

The fact that he’s giving me some half-assed apology like I’m a pathetic clingy ex sets me off. “Yeah, I know what its like to be busy. I plan to be very busy for the foreseeable future, including this weekend.”

“Busy doing what?” He is annoyed again. Jesus, this guy is moody.

“Sinking a boat down at the marina.”

I hang up the phone, shaking my head and wondering what’s wrong with some guys. My phone rings again and I let it go to voicemail.