If You’re Here Because of My OK Cupid Profile…

This is a public service announcement, aimed at anyone who is cyber stalking me because they met me during my misguided attempt with online dating at OK Cupid. After a few days online, I quickly decided that my time would be better spent bettering myself, so I’ve elected to use my free time to go back to school and get my MFA, rather than date. It’s a matter of cost/benefit analysis. The cost in both cases is my time, but the benefit to both differs exponentially.

With a master’s in fine arts, I get the knowledge to make myself a better writer, and connections that will help me further my career. With online dating, I get STDs and the potential to wind up as a victim (or aggressor) on “Fatal Attractions.”  For me, the analysis told me everything I needed to know, so I shut down my profile and stopped responding to messages. I figured that would be enough, but it wasn’t, as several hopeful suitors have chosen to follow me out into the world wide web.

So if you’ve arrived here because you need closure on our “relationship” the following is for you.


Look, I get you’re interested, but contacting me on every single social media channel is getting out of hand.

I lost interest. It happens. As we have never met in person, and never even been out on one date, general dating rules indicate I don’t owe you an explanation as to why I’m not interested. I’m just not. I’m allowed to pull the whole ‘radio silence’ thing and disappear, just as you’re entitled to send ONE message, calling me a cunt, tease, bitch-whore-cuntface or any combination thereof. I get that. It’s the rules of dating in the digital age.

What you’re not entitled to do is track me down like your long lost fiancé who got amnesia following some kind of shipwreck. We don’t know each other. We exchanged like five emails on a dating site. We did not exchange vows, promise rings, or bodily fluids.

Which makes you hunting me down on Facebook, browsing my profile on LinkedIn and direct messaging me on Twitter not flattering, but creepy in a “I want to wear you as a skin suit” kind of way.

So let me make this clear. I’m not interested. Nothing against you. I’m sure you’re a great person. I’m just not interested. Hunting me like a tiger stalking a gazelle is not going to change that. It’s just going to drive me to get two things; a restraining order and a gun.

Now back the fuck off.


I’m putting this up here because this didn’t just happen once. Many men have contacted me off site. Many of those men didn’t even have any contact information for me. That leads me to believe they reverse googled my images, which is creepy in and of itself. No joke guys, that is not flattering, and I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish. If your goal was to creep me out, well done. If it was to garner my interest, you have failed miserably.

I’m not trying to be a bitch, but circumstances have put me in a bitch position. Honestly, I’m not that much of a catch anyway. I’m a self-centered alcoholic loudmouth with questionable personal hygiene. Trust me boys, you dodged a bullet.

But seriously? Back the fuck off. I know we’re living in a new world, but to me, courting should never involve being cyber stalked.

If It Ain’t Broke, Don’t Fix It

One of my favorite books is Tortilla Flat. You may have heard of it, you may not have, but it’s mainly a story about how change isn’t always good. It’s one of my favorite books because of one particular story that has stuck with me for years.


There’s this single mom and she’s a migrant farm worker who spends her days gathering beans on a farm. The guy at the farm tells her that she can have all the beans that fall on the ground, as long as she saves the beans on the bush for paying customers.

So she uses the beans to feed her family. Everyday, breakfast, lunch and dinner, the kids have beans wrapped in a tortilla. That’s all her kids ever eat, tortillas and beans. But the thing is, they’re amazingly healthy. They’re neither under, nor overweight. They aren’t anemic or sickly. They’re happy, energetic kids.

Then, there’s a massive rain fall that ruins all the beans. On the edge of starvation, the lady turns to the main characters for help, asking if they can get her more beans.

So the guys do what they do best. They go around town, stealing as much food as they can for the family. But they think the lady deserves more than beans, so they steal milk, and fruit and white flour and give it all to the lady. They don’t give her any beans but knowing that beggars can’t be choosers, the lady takes all the food and gives it to her kids.

They don’t get healthier. Instead, the dairy gives them croup, the fruit gives them the runs and the white flower gives them stomachaches. Desperate again, the lady returns with a specific request.

All she wants is beans.

So the men steal a large sack of dried beans and give it to her. Soon after, the children return to perfect health. They all live happily ever after…at least until the main character dies in a fire.

The moral of the story? “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

WordPress, you could probably take a lesson from Tortilla Flat.

You all might have noticed my page has changed. That was not through any desire of mine. I liked the old format. While some people said it might look a little ‘sex dungeon’, I always thought I was a sex dungeon kind of girl, so it worked.

Then, I installed a long overdue update to my WordPress software and it all went to hell. Suddenly, I didn’t know where anything was anymore. I couldn’t access the coding and change simple things like font color, because the blank template I used in the past was no longer supported.

Here’s the thing. I like a black background with white font. Why? Because it’s better for my reader’s eyes. Contrary to popular belief, staring at a white background with black font on a website is not like looking at a piece of paper. It’s like staring at a 100 watt lightbulb.

So I’m trying to work around this mess, because WordPress changed something that wasn’t broke. Much like the lady in the story, I was perfectly happy with the status quo. Much like the kids in the story, fighting with this new uncodeable theme is giving me the runs.

So I’m going to try out some new themes, at least until I find something that doesn’t give me the runs when I’m trying to recode it.

But Jesus, I do miss my old blank ‘beans and tortillas’ theme.

It just goes to show you, even in technology, sometimes what worked in the past works better now. Simplicity is key and above all…if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Or You Could Try Not Being a Dick

Check out the below eye roll inducing video.

For those who don’t want to watch, some Texas idiot decided based on his extensive legal expertise of…well, not being a lawyer, that’s for damn sure, he was going to a disobey a lawful order and got his window smashed in for the trouble. It amazes me how many people I see trying to get out of a speeding ticket or other minor charge by offering some kind of ‘loophole’ legal argument. Here are some of the most idiotic ones I’ve heard.

  • If I ask an undercover cop if he’s a cop, he has to say yes
  • I’m never required to give ID
  • I don’t have to talk to the cops at all, because of the 5th amendment
  • If they don’t read you your Miranda Rights at the time of the arrest, it’s a get out of jail free card

I don’t know how these fallacies get spread. Maybe it’s movies, maybe it’s the magic of the internet, but in reality, if there is a loophole to be found in your case, don’t play street side lawyer. Let your real lawyer handle it.

Otherwise, like the above guy, you’re probably going to fuck it up royally.

You really want to walk away from a potential arrest, here’s an idea and you won’t have to pull legal research on off of some shitty internet forum.

Try not being a dick. That’s it. Just not being a complete dick works about 99% of the time. Let me give you an example.

Officer: So the reason I pulled you over is because you were going 95 in a 60 while snorting coke off an underage hooker’s ass, and also, a bunch of AK-47s fell out of your trunk. May I have your license and registration?

Wrong Response

I don’t have to say anything or give you anything, because of the 5th amendment and this isn’t Nazi Germany, and you’re worse than Hitler. I saw on Law & Order that before you pulled me over you were required identify yourself as a police officer, and you were waiting on the side of the road and that’s entrapment and… is that a Taser? Wait! ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTT…AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Right Response

Here you go (smart person hands cop their identifying credentials and then SHUTS THE FUCK UP. Cop returns with paperwork and decides to let driver off with a warning)

Hey, I’m in Florida. If everyone in this state who drives around with illegal firearms, with underage hookers, while high on drugs was arrested, there’d be no room in the prisons.

Not being a dick is an arrest defense that has worked time and time again. It works whether you’re a man or a woman, whether you’re black or white. It works because it keeps a bad situation from escalating.

Sure, you might still get arrested, or a ticket, but if you pull the “I’m a street side lawyer and I’m going to be a condescending dick” routine, you’ve just given the cop more reason to want to see you in prison. However, not being a dick gives you the possibility of getting let off with a warning.

The time to use loopholes is not at the time of your arrest. It’s when your case goes to court. Lawyers are experts at loopholes because they get their info from places other than the internet and crime shows. Help them help you by not being a dick.

Presenting National Day Drunk Day!!!

So today is “National Donut Day.” I’ve been hearing about it all day, watching Dunking Donuts and Starbucks use it as a marketing scheme, and I have to admit, I’m annoyed. I’m annoyed because while overeaters get the opportunity to embrace their vices, alcoholic recreational drug users like myself don’t.

What about the rest of us? Where is our opportunity to embrace our vices, not just acceptably, but in an avenue of encouragement?

Until today, we were underserved. We were ignored because we didn’t have an acceptable vice that corporations that could make money from.

So, because I’m the kind of person who likes to embrace all personal choices (and get drunk before noon) I’m announcing the first National Day Drunk Day, which will occur on June 20, 2015.

Look, everyone else gets a holiday. Political people, nostalgic people, fat people, athletic people, religious people…but what about we people who enjoy abusing mind altering substances?

That’s what National Day Drunk Day is for. On June 20, 2015, feel free to get as drunk as you want while you do whatever you want. Drunk and dial that ex. Sleep with someone ugly. Send a long, offensive email to your father, filled with profanities, complaining about how little he does for you…Father’s day is the next day, after all.

Above all, know this. For 24 hours, nothing you do counts. It’s like Vegas, only what happens on National Day Drunk Day, stays on National Day Drunk Day.

Whether you’re a happy drunk, an angry drunk, or a slutty drunk, all are welcome (especially slutty drunks). It’s about time that we all had a holiday that we’re intentionally supposed to not remember.

This isn’t New Year’s, where you pretend that the new year is your reason for getting drunk. This isn’t Christmas, where you pretend loneliness or dealing with annoying family relations is your excuse for getting drunk. It’s National Day Drunk Day and you don’t need an excuse. It’s not just accepted, but expected, that you be full on raging day drunk before noon.

So spread the message and let’s make this happen. The hashtag is #daydrunk and the time is June 20. I hope to see you all there.

TLC, Like It Or Not, You Had A Responsibility

There’s a well-known phenomenon out there. It’s called “social proof.” It’s been used in psychology, marketing, and as a defense in criminal trials.

Simply stated, it means that people tend to assume that the people around them are more knowledgeable than they are. These people need not have any credibility at all. They can be complete failures at life, but because they speak in an authoritative tone, in a public arena, others will assume they are subject matter experts.

Let me tell you a first-hand story about social proof and how it works.

Awhile back, I was at a party with a guy who clearly had a drinking problem. Well before the party, he’d gotten into a drunken fight with his girlfriend, stole her car, plowed it into an underpass and then spent the next two days holed up in a bar.

It was practically the real life story that inspired the Bartender song.

Anyone would reconsider their drinking after that. Any normal person would look at an incident like that and say “hey, you know what? It’s time to cut out the drinking. It’s clearly ruining my life.”

For a while, this guy (we’ll call him Steve) did. Then, one night, we all went to a housewarming party at my friend Carlie’s house. Steve wasn’t drinking. Then, Carlie got involved.

“Why aren’t you drinking, Steve?”

Steve sheepishly looked down. “I stopped. Turns out, I’m a complete asshole when I’m drinking.”

“Come on!” Carlie did not like to drink alone. “You’ll be fine. Just have one.”

Steve might have said no, but social proof took over. “Ok. I guess one wouldn’t hurt.”

Four hours later, as I was trying to peel a half-naked, sobbing Steve off of me, it occurred to me that Carlie was hardly an expert. She wasn’t a rehab counselor or doctor. She wasn’t a social worker and she sure as shit wasn’t a psychic, otherwise she would have predicted Steve’s impending alcohol poisoning…and the fact that he would need a new pair of pants.

She had no authority whatsoever to tell Steve drinking ‘just one’ would be fine. We both simply fell for social proof. For some reason, when Carlie said “it’s ok” I assumed it would be and so did Steve.

She was wrong.

I bring this up because of the Duggar scandal. For anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock, Josh Duggar is one of those weird, uber religious people from 19 Kids and Counting and it was recently revealed that Josh had molested several young girls as a teenager.

Look, I’m not going to jump on the bandwagon and call Josh a pedophile. I don’t know what happened and the court records don’t to exist to prove it. He could have been a teenager who made a mistake. He could be a sexual predator. The world may never know.

What I know is this. Josh has been held up as an authority, especially an authority on the well-being of children. He chose to put himself in that position, knowing that in the past, he had not acted in the best interest of children. He chose to hide his past, with a simple ‘god forgave me and I got counseling’ without making impressionable viewers aware that he might not be as squeaky clean as he previously indicated. He might not be an authority on his chosen platform.

For me, that’s where the problems come in. Even smart people get sucked in by social proof. If you’re in a public position, making statements to the masses, people are going to believe you.

They’re going to use your mistakes as an excuse to justify their own.

I’m glad 19 Kids and Counting got cancelled. Not just because I hate the way they treat women like breed stock and instill mass panic about homosexuality. No, I’m glad they got cancelled because of social proof.

How many pedophiles are out there right now, using Josh Duggar’s excuses as their own? How many feel, maybe not justified, but ok with what they’ve done because someone in a position of authority did it too? How many will feel ok about it, because if a massive corporate enterprise can know something like this, and still get behind someone who perpetrated it, it must be ok? It must be normal.

It’s where social proof becomes incredibly dangerous.

TLC should have known about this and they should have done something about it well before it became public knowledge. It was incredibly irresponsible to give any family with a skeleton in their past like this a platform on national television.

Even if you’re peddling reality trash (and you know you are, TLC) you have a responsibility to the people that watch your shows. And no, not all of them are idiots. You don’t have to be an idiot to be taken in by social proof.

I’m a smart girl, but that night with Steve, even I somehow attributed authority to Carlie that she hadn’t earned. For some reason, because she said it would be ok, I believed her. I justified my decision to be ok with Steve drinking because of her telling me it would be ok.

Carlie was on some kind of strange pedestal that I created for her. Without realizing it, when we allow people to become reality television stars, we put them on a pedestal too. The Jersey Shore people made it ok to be drunk all the time. The Bachelor made it ok to date 20 chicks at once. Honey BooBoo and Duck Dynasty made it ok to be redneck idiots.

And now 19 Kids and Counting makes it ok to fondle underage girls…as long as you claim Jesus forgives you. Well done, TLC.

I don’t expect my reality stars to be above reproach, but I do expect my TV channels to be responsible. I’m trusting you. I’m expecting you to be better than me because I think you’re in a position of authority. If other people trust you, I should trust you too. You’re on a pedestal.

And when you fall off that pedestal, it’s not how the landing affects you that matters. It’s how many dominoes are going down with you along the way.

The Mystery Bruise

I have a bruise on my ass. It’s not a little one. It’s one of those scary “Tupac black” bruises that leaves pasty white people like me wondering if we have leukemia. It’s large and black, and in the shape of Texas.

I have no idea where it came from. Did I mess with Texas? I’ve heard that you just ‘don’t mess with Texas.’ I’d never do that.

…it’s not nice to pick on retards.

(Sorry Alejandro, I just couldn’t let that joke go unsaid. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the least Texan Texan I know.)

Anywho, this mystery has been bothering me all day. Here’s the thing. I’m a bit flakier in real life than I come off online. Like flaky in the “I nearly put wart remover in my eye because I thought it was eye drops” kind of way. Like flaky in the “I found my cell phone in the freezer this morning” kind of way.

So I am no stranger to mystery bruises. I get them all the time. The minor ones I just brush off as general clumsiness, but the major ones always leave me wondering.

Because the major ones always have a story.

The worst one I can remember happened several years ago. It was the day after Saint Patrick’s Day when I woke up with a pain in my foot. It wasn’t a little pain. It was a broiling, bleeding, blistered “holy shit do I have foot cancer?” pain.

And I had no idea how it happened.  Try as I might, my drunken, hazy memory would not release the story of this horrible injury. So I simply assumed that it was far too traumatic to remember. Then, I made up my own story.

A bus filled with puppies and orphans was careening towards a cliff. I was the only one around and the only one who could save the day. With only courage and determination as my fortitude I ran towards that damned bus. Using my MacGyver-like skills, I quickly created a system of pullies and ropes (that just happened to be laying around) and lassoed the bus, keeping all of the puppies and orphans from plummeting to their certain deaths.

While this was happening, the rope caught on my foot and I got rope burn.

Satisfied with my story, I went on about my day. I had to wear flip flops, but at least all those puppies and orphans were safe.

Then my friend Mike called.

“How’s your foot?”

I gave a long suffering sigh, having fully convinced myself of my foot martyr status. “It’s ok. I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

“Why would anyone get hurt? I still can’t believe you did that.”

My illusions were about to be destroyed. “What did I do?”

“You said you were so drunk you couldn’t feel your legs. Then, you bet me $5 that I could put my cigarette out on your foot without you screaming.”

“Why the fuck would you agree to that?” I was outraged.

“That’s exactly what you screamed at me when I did it!”

Illusions destroyed, my serious injury that I got while being a selfless angel became a simple drunken bet that I’d lost. I lose a lot of drunken bets.

I imagine my last words will be “Hold my beer. I bet I can do this.”

So I’m not sure I really want to know where this bruise came from. In fact, I know I don’t, because I already know how I got it.

See, there was this busload of puppies and orphans, careening towards a cliff….

Essa Buys a New Phone

It was an early Friday morning when I received an ominous text message from T-Mobile.

Dear valued customer;

Please note that the outrageously out of date phone that you’re currently using will no longer be supported by our network as of June 6, 2015. Honestly, we’re seriously surprised we even had to send this message. We figured that pure embarrassment would have caused you to replace that brick of a phone you’ve been carrying. Jesus, you must look like Zach Morris from Saved by the Bell…

zach morris giant cellphone

Please come in and replace your phone ASAP. As a precaution, we’ve also sent this message to your Aol.com email account…and dispatched a time machine to 1993, where you’ve apparently been living for the past 20 years.

Ok, so not the exact text from T-Mobile. I took some artistic license. The message was the same.

Replace your phone, you dated bitch.

Here’s the thing. I’m cool with computers. I recently got a new laptop and I had no problem naming the specs I wanted when I hunted it down.

But I suck with mobile. I mean, why would I need to be good at it? As previously stated, I’m a crazy recluse who rarely leaves the house. So I don’t pay a lot of attention to my phone and I’m certainly not an iPhone kind of girl. Those things cost like $600!

Do you people realize how much weed that could buy?

So of course, it was with great trepidation that I headed down to my local cell phone store to get myself a new texting machine.

I arrived at the store and was immediately overwhelmed with how trendy everything was. There was some 23-year-old emo chick behind the counter, with gauged ears and a disinterested look on her face, talking to an equally trendy looking dread-locked man holding a phone with enough apps on it to take down the International Space Station.

So I sat there with my sad little phone, in my sensible flats with my normal sized piercings, and I waited and eavesdropped.

“Ok, Mr. Danger, I’ve added your sym card to your new Nokia 89000 4G LTE Wi-Fi Capable Planet Crusher Sat Nav, ESPN B-52 Phone. It looks like all 8,000 of your contacts have transferred successfully. Have a nice day.”

8000 contacts? Who the hell has 8000 contacts? I immediately felt angry and inadequate at the same time. I don’t have 8000 contacts. I’m not even sure I’ve met 8000 people in my whole life.

I checked my phone and felt even worse. 34 contacts. And four of those contacts were duplicates for the pizza place that I tried to add after one too many beers.

Finally, it was my turn. Gauged ear girl turned to look at me. “How can I help you?”

I thrust my phone at her, holding it with two fingers, as though it was covered in Ebola. “I need to replace this.”

She gave me a confused look. “Have you been out of the country?” She studied the phone as though looking at a strange artifact from the past, like one of those steam powered dildos from the 1800s. “I don’t think this company makes these anymore. Hell, I don’t even think they make phones anymore. They mainly supply prisons with metal detectors now.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve been busy…” I left it at that, hoping she’d assume I was some kind of super spy who’d been on a mission in Yemen and didn’t have access to technology made after 2001.

“Ok, so what are you looking for?”

I had figured that was evident. “A phone.”

“Yes.” She drew her answer out very slow, like she was talking to a mentally unbalanced person. “But what do you need to do with it?”

“Fruit Ninja.” That answer was immediate. My phone time is literally spent 1% on texts, 2% on phone calls and 97% on Fruit Ninja.

We decided on a Samsung Galaxy for two reasons. One, it was free and two, I broke 1000 on Fruit Ninja when she let me try it out.


I went home pretty happy with my purchase. Granted, I’m not 100% sure on how to use everything. I might have downloaded every video ever uploaded to YouTube when trying to upload my photos to my computer, and I’m almost sure I accidentally texted everyone I know a photo of a cartoon dog pooping.

But Fruit Ninja seems to be working. In the end, that’s all that really matters. I also managed to take a selfie! Check it out.

Ridiculous Selfie 001