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….
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…
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.
Hey everyone, back again from a short hiatus. It’s been a busy winter and I’m working on something new, so posts will be few and far between, but they’ll happen.
The other night, I was perusing a writer’s forum and I saw a phrase I hate. In syntax it was “I don’t care if anyone reads what I write, as long as I get to write.”
I hate that phrase. I hate that phrase because it removes all ambition from the artistic process. It’s an attempt by a failed writer to prove that they’re artistically above other writers who have had commercial success.
Look, you can be one of those assholes who pretends they never want to make money off their writing, and live in relative poverty until they’re discovered 100 years after they die, but I’m not that kind of chick. I’m a writer first, but I’m also a businesswoman, and if there was no payoff in this for me, I’d do what most middle aged hot blondes do and go sell real estate.
To me a serious writer isn’t a person who hides behind their art. They’re a person who’s willing to make a few sacrifices to satisfy the masses. As writers we are, above all, entertainers.
To people who don’t get that, here are five easy ways to fail at being a writer
1. Keep having ideas without writing books.
Ideas are easy. It’s the writing that’s hard. Setting the scene, creating the atmosphere and writing realistic dialog are all learned skills that are not easy. That million dollar idea you have, that you think no one has thought of? It’s probably already written down, along with 500 others in my scrap file. The problem is, I’ll write it first, because I actually write the books to go with the ideas
2. Hang out in writers forums all the time talking about the book you’re writing.
Writing forums are for two things; kissing your own ass or kissing someone else’s. There are only two personality types in writer’s forums. The blowhards who claim to have made it and the newbs who treat their words like gospel. Both are equally useless to your career. Write your book and ignore the third party opinions. They’re always wrong anyway
3. Staunchly refuse to reconsider your genre
Sad fact people, but certain genres just don’t sell. Poetry, children’s books, and memoirs all have one thing in common. No one wants to read them. Look, everyone thinks their life story is worth a book, but the fact is, unless you’re a former spy, a victim of sex trafficking, or undergoing a sex change, no one wants to hear your life story. The genres that sell are educational nonfiction and fiction with a sexual or mystery angle. That’s it. Deal with it. Even Shakespeare got that.
4. Don’t accept your limitations
So English isn’t your first language and you want to write a book in it anyway? Go ahead. No one will comment on your grammar or spelling. Just kidding. EVERYONE will destroy you for not using appropriate grammar and spelling. You want to sell, write a book in your native language and get a fan following there, then move on to foreign markets. You don’t see me writing books in Spanish, do you? It’s not just because the only things I know how to say in Spanish are learned from telenovas.
I.e. “El abby no es tuyo. Son tus hermanos, Ricardo” (The baby isn’t yours. It’s your brothers, Ricardo.)
It’s because I don’t live in the country, don’t understand their slang and customs, and it would be presumptive of me to try to sell to that market. I’m successful because I accept my limitations. A sure fire way to fail is refusing to accept yours.
5. Refuse to treat this like a business.
All artists have to work to sell their art. All of them. There are no exceptions. You’re not going to get discovered in a closet. Either be willing to stand behind your work, or write all your shit down in a journal. After all, if you don’t care if anyone reads your work, why publish it? Stop flooding an over-saturated market with your words if you don’t care if anyone ever reads them.
Look people, I know I come across as arrogant, but I actually get a livable paycheck from my writing. I’m all in. I’m willing to sacrifice to satisfy the market. So you can bitch to me about your low sales numbers, and talk about how it’s all about the writing for you. I don’t care. To me, it’s all about the now. So go ahead and get famous after you’re dead. I’ll take my fame while I’m still around to enjoy it.
Because only one of us is the real writer here. It’s the girl who files as ‘writer’ on her tax returns. The rest of you are just hobbyists.
It genuinely amazes me how many people email me asking for free writing, simply for exposure. Look people, if I wanted exposure, I’d travel down to New Orleans and show my tits to a stranger.
Weirdly, they aren’t quite so accepting of it when it’s not Mardi Gras. Instead of beads, you just get a summons for public nudity. Such bullshit.
I don’t write for free. When I’m working for a client, I charge industry average based on my experience. That starts at 10 cents per word and works its way up to 25 cents per word, depending on the complexity of the article. While those prices might seem high, I can personally guarantee that people will pay them if you’re good enough.
I’m not just good enough. I’m fucking great.
But I wasn’t always this good. Once upon a time, I worked for content mill fees. The first client I got to pay me 2 cents per word, I rejoiced like a fool. Two cents per word!!! I only had to write 50 articles a week to live! So I wrote until my fingers bled and I was thrilled at the fact that I could live on my writing. After all, I was getting exposure! I had clips!
Anyone who has ever tried to break into freelancing before, you probably know how precious clips are. To get clients, you need to show you have published articles on websites. That’s probably why so many people are willing to write for free to get those clips.
But you all need to stop. You ruin your credibility and cut yourself off at the knees when you work for sites that aren’t known to pay people for their work. “A Huffington Post author applied for this job?” The client will say. “That means they’re good, and they’re willing to work for peanuts!”
Is that the reputation you want?
The big companies that do this, Huffington Post included, piss me the hell off. These people are raking in billions of dollars in content views and affiliate sales every year, while the people the write that content get nothing.
Oh, not nothing. I forgot…they get exposure. But did you know you can get exposure without lining someone else’s pockets? Here are some tips on how to do it.
#1 – Start your own website and post your writing samples. You all might notice that I have a page on this site called “Essa’s Writing Samples”. There, I link to a bunch of internal pages I created, covering a large variety of topics. These articles came about when I got scammed on a job. To prevent the scammer from using my original work, I posted it all first. In short, I made lemons of lemonade.
Now, when I’m applying for a new job, regardless of subject, I always have a link to something relevant. I own all the rights, so I can resell the articles if I want. As I’ve always said, never give up your rights in exchange for nothing. That’s just stupid. If someone wants the rights to post your work, they should offer something more than exposure. You can get that yourself by creating your own writing sample page.
#2 – Don’t underestimate your blog, but don’t turn it into a marketing page either. I’ve never really seen Essa on Everything as a moneymaker. That’s why I don’t try very hard to stay professional and PC in my articles. On Essa on Everything, I write for the fun of it. I let myself go and the passion shows through in my writing. It isn’t exactly PG-13. I don’t try to make it that way.
But this blog had gotten me more clients than any completed application. From my “Passion of the Christ” article, I got a movie reviewing job that has lasted at least two years and has led to other work. From my article where I wrote an algorithm to keep myself from drunkenly purchasing things on Amazon, I got a job writing tech articles with a high-profile software company and I sold the algorithm. I never expected to make money on either of these articles. I just wrote what I was passionate about and people responded. I didn’t turn my page into an advertising page. If I had, I would have concentrated on staying PG and none of it would have worked out the way it did.
#3 – Write a book. KDP makes it so anyone can publish a book these days, but not a lot of people realize that. One of my biggest selling points in ghostwriting is how many books I’ve published, their status as bestsellers and how many good reviews they’ve gotten. While you might not hit bestseller status on Amazon with a book, it is a good way to show you understand ghostwriting.
People, you do not need to work for free. Breaking into freelancing is hard, but if you’re willing to work hard and pay your dues, you’ll find your niche. When I started, I expected to be writing dating tips and product reviews for a penny a word. Over the years, I’ve learned that my niche areas are sex and tech, for a much higher amount. They’re very different, but they both pay high and despite what people may think, clients are willing to pay a premium price for premium content.
Google has changed. Their algorithm now rewards page rank based on article quality, and not quantity. That means those keyword stuffers working for peanuts will soon be out of business. So stop working for free. If you think you’re good enough to write for a living, then expect people to pay for it. If you don’t want to get paid for you work, might I suggest working for a non-profit instead?
I have an extensive listing of things that are bad for me that I continue to do. I drink, I have promiscuous sex, I refuse to get a real job and I drive a car that’s brake system is the equivalent of Fred Flintstone stopping a car with his feet. I take great pride in living a high-risk lifestyle.
But above all, I smoke. I’m not one of those pussy, “social smokers’. You know, those hipster assholes who steal all your cigarettes when you’re out drinking together? I am a hardcore, fully addicted smoker. To give you an example, one time, I was involved in a fire. My old roommate had accidentally lit her bed on fire (sexy, right?) with a candle while she was sleeping.
As we raced out the doors, sprinklers coming on and the hallways filling with acrid smoke, I could only think of one thing.
“Shit, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”
I was able to bum one from a fireman, but my point here is, that even engulfed in a full wall of smoke, all I could think about was inhaling more.
So yeah, I’m an addict.
So why do all you anti-smoking assholes out there think you’re the ones who are going to get through to me? If I can smoke in a three-alarm fire, chances are your little speech about the dangers of emphysema are going in one ear and out the other.
The other day, I was at Gas Station, my favorite place on earth. I was buying my standard pack of 305 menthols from my friendly Indian cashier, who I refer to as Mr. Indian John Travolta (because he looks like an Indian John Travolta), when some overweight, redneck asshole comes popping out of the bathroom, dragging an 18 pack of beer with him.
He sees the cigarettes in my hand. “You know those things are bad for you?”
This time, instead of just rolling my eyes, I responded.
“Holy shit, you’re fucking kidding me! I had no idea. See my doctor told me they were ideal for curing ‘the vapors’ and ‘female hysteria’. Why would he lie to me? They should put a warning on these things or something! <flips over pack in my hands with wide-eyed idiot look> Oh, wait, here’s one, right from the Surgeon General. Funny I’ve never noticed it before. <eyes man suspiciously> Are you the surgeon general? If so, thank you., so much. You really changed my life.”
This is not a stupid man. He clearly knew I was making fun of him. So he responded. “Ok, I’m sorry. You’re just too pretty to smoke.”
Guys, I know you think you’re flirting when you say stuff like this, but honestly, it‘s statements like this that make me want to dip my goddamn face in battery acid. Because when you say this, you’re saying one of two things.
One, being pretty makes me stupider than normal people and I need to be told how to make my life decisions. Or two, being pretty makes me a more valuable breeding commodity that needs to be extended as long as possible despite its self-destructive tendencies.
Neither of those opinions are valid. First off, I’m pretty fucking smart. I might not be Steven Hawking, but I can personally guarantee you that the phrase ‘too pretty to smoke’ doesn’t come off as flirtation to smart girls. It comes off as condescending.
Second, in case you’re eyeing me up for an egg candidate, being pretty doesn’t make me a good breeder. I’m thirty-four and I like to drink while occasionally dabbling in recreational drug use. There’s a very good chance that any eggs coming out of this uterus will be filled with all kinds of brain damage.
But hey, at least they’ll be pretty.
So after the dude told me I was too ‘pretty to smoke’ I took the kid gloves off.
“Well, you’re too fat to pee standing up, but you don’t see me kicking in the bathroom stall and warning you of the dangers of lumbar herniation while you’re draining the lizard, now do you?”
With that, the bathroom man gave Mr. Indian John Travolta one of those ‘this bitch is crazy’ looks and walked out of the store.
Look, people, stop this. Stop getting into other people’s faces about the personal decisions they make with their bodies. You don’t see me wandering around restaurants, telling fat people to lay off the red meat and get a chicken salad, do you? No, because what you do with yourself is up to you.
You don’t know me and you don’t know my life. For all you know, I might not be that interested in living that long anyway. My grandfather smoked every day of his adult life before he died of cancer at 69.
To me, that’s just about perfect. Long enough to live a full life, and not so long that I become this needy, dependent thing, just waiting to die. I have no desire to live to 100. I’d rather cut this all off at the peak and move on to the next life.
“Too pretty to smoke’ is not a flirtation. It’s condescending, rude and makes me want to stab you in the eye.
I smoke because I’m addicted and I don’t need you reminding me that ‘smoking is bad for you’. I’m not fucking stupid. I’m addicted and every time I try to quit, some idiot comes up and reminds me of why it would be better to die young anyway.
We all make bad choices. Chances are, if you’re reading this now, you’re addicted to some drug or another; you’re in a relationship that just isn’t right for you, or a job you hate. Maybe you weigh a little too much or maybe you focus on your weight too much. We all have our vices. It’s up to us to decide how much we allow those vices to control our lives.
Right now, me and smoking, we’re at a happy medium. So stop with the convenience store sermons, because cigarettes have been part of my life for far longer than you, and neither of us gives a shit about your opinions.
The title kind of says it all. To explain where this is coming from, today, I got an 1100 word message responding to a post that I wrote two and a half years ago. As I close down the comments section after around 30 days, this poster couldn’t put their long winded argument into my comments section.
So they emailed me.
Apparently, this person thought that their genius position was so groundbreaking, so incredible, so amazing, that I absolutely must read it, even if they were showing up to the conversation two years and five months too late.
So I deleted their email without reading it.
Look people, I know many of you disagree with the stances I take on various issues. I have to admit, I’m kind of all over the place. I’m all for the death penalty, but am also against the pro-life movement. I tout a drug legalized society for the financial benefits, and then say that illegal immigration is cool in my book.
Let me explain the evolution of an Essa blog. See, it initially started as a place to pimp my books. But I’m not super great at marketing, like to drink, and eventually, this turned into a page where I rant about everything that pisses me off.
It went from being an online marketing platform, to an online diary, and I regret nothing.
So every once in a while, I vent in my diary and you read it. You might like it, you might not like it. You might disagree with it. But you’re not changing my mind. Not now, not ever.
This page isn’t here for marketing, anymore. I haven’t written an Essa Alroc book in 3 years and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever even finish my first series. This page isn’t here for page views. While I make a nice residual income from marketing, it’s hardly keeping me in leather pants and candy apples every month.
This page is a journal. It’s where I get over the stuff that really pisses me off. And what you think about those thoughts? Yeah, that doesn’t mean shit to me. You’re not changing my mind.
If you can write an 1100 word response to something I wrote, you should probably start your own fucking blog.
So yeah, I play fast and loose with the comments. I’ll let a few through, and decide not to let a few through. I’ll ignore your emails and not care that you spent all night looking up ‘facts’ on Wikipedia. You piss me off enough, I might even change your comment, just for fun. This is not CNN. No one gives a fuck about your opinion; especially seeing your opinion always includes ‘It’s Obama’s fault’ when no one is fucking talking about politics. People don’t come here to read your opinion.
People come here to read mine.
This is my online diary. It’s not a news blog. It’s not a forum where you can get into random fights with commenters. Hell, it’s not even a shitty Buzz Feed article. It’s my innermost thoughts.
And I really don’t give a fuck what you think about them. If you want to comment, comment. If you can get your comment in under the thirty-day timeslot, and not make me go cross-eyed reading 1100 words of block text, I’ll let you through. But don’t bother emailing your stupid comment nearly two years after the original post and expecting me to give a shit about it.
Because I really, really don’t. That’s why this page is called “Essa on Everything” and not “Random Asshole on Everything”.
Deal with it.
I don’t have a lot to lose. That’s why I feel free to say everything I say. You can’t change my mind about the things I say. I wouldn’t have written an article if my position wasn’t solid. You can’t email this shit to my boss and embarrass me because I am my own boss and my boss thinks I’m awesome. The page doesn’t threaten my book sales because the people that read it never actually buy my books.
This is not a democracy. I am not looking for feedback on my management style. This is an aristocracy on the same line as Thunderdome. So in this little universe, the only opinions that matter are Tina Turners’ and mine. Welcome to Thunderdome, bitches.
Consider me Aunty Entity.
If only my real life was as exciting as my literary one.
I recently picked up a job writing sex blurbs for a hot new dating site. This is to supplement my income while my porn sales kick up. With any luck, by the end of this year, I will no longer be Essa Alroc, freelance writer and novelist.
I’ll just be Essa Alroc, writer of kicky spank porn.
But it occurs to me that my entire life is fueled by sex right now. My books sell because people are horny. The guys at the dating site need me to write for them because people are horny. You’d think with all of this horniness, I’d be getting more ass than a toilet seat, right?
As you all know, I am a fan of the one night stand. This is because I suffer from a magic disorder where I lose all interest in a person once I’ve slept with them. Apparently, the antibodies in my immune system view oxytocin cells on the same level as Ebola.
Meaning they terminate those motherfuckers with extreme prejudice.
Now, in the past, this has worked for me. I’m like a sex camel. I can get laid once and then live off the glow for an entire season. This saves me the trouble of having to talk to anyone, change out of sweatpants or leave the house regularly. I don’t like complications and other people in my life are complications. I might have some form of sexual aspergers. Regardless, it was working out pretty nicely in the sexual universe of Essa Alroc
But then some motherfucker killed my mojo. We’re going to call him “the sleep strangler.”
I met the sleep strangler at a Cuban club, because I have a thing for guys who have a thing for big asses. He was a sizzling hot Latin, a good foot taller than me, and he had giant hands. All pluses.
Then I got him back to his hotel room, and everything went to minus-ville. First off, he was a passive guy, the kind of guy who needs your permission to do everything and expects the chick to do all the work in bed. That would be all well and good if I was fat, or ugly, or looking for a relationship, but I’m not.
I’m a chick who knows what I want and what I want is for you to tell me what to do. Slap my ass, pull my hair, all of that fun stuff. Treat me like I’m the chick. Because when you put me in charge, it makes me feel like the dude. I don’t want to be the dude. It’s why I grew this lovely vagina all those 34 years ago.
So already, I was disappointed by the sleep strangler. That would have been all well and good if we’d just left it at bad sex. God knows I’ve had plenty of bad sex…
But it didn’t end there, because the sleep strangler was a cuddler.
Look, I know I don’t sound like it, but I can be cuddly. A few minutes of snuggling, laying together on the couch, even spooning, I’ve been known to tolerate, and even enjoy these activities.
What I don’t enjoy is when you cling onto me like a sweaty Irishman clinging onto the last life preserver on the god damn Titanic.
No joke, this dude was wrapped around me like the string on a Christmas ham, his face pressed right into my neck, as he snored like he had a case of terminal sleep apnea.
No matter where I rolled, he followed. No matter how many times I jiggled him, he just kept snoring. I even got up and went to the other bed (yeah, he had a double bed room. I’m so classy) and he fucking followed me!
And I was like “where was all this aggressive energy when we were actually screwing?”
By 5 am, I felt like my old bear, Vanilla. Yeah, assholes, I have a teddy bear. I’ve had him (he’s clearly a boy. A girl just knows these things) since I was eight. At night, I would squeeze that bear like my life depended on it. I’d squish him with all my might and when I woke up in the morning, he was right there next to me, wrapped in my kung fu grip, unable to escape.
That is exactly how the sleep strangler made me feel, hence the name ‘sleep strangler.”
The next morning, it was even worse. We were in one of those fancy resorts in the middle of nowhere, and there was no way for me to get home without him driving me. All I really wanted to do was leave a fake name and disappear, before taking a 9000 degree shower.
But the sleep strangler had other ideas.
He wanted to talk. He wanted to putter around his room, put his hair gel in, shave, shower, tell me about his family, go out for coffee. The whole time I was thinking “why the fuck didn’t I get picked up by a serial killer instead? At least that dude would have been done already.”
Note to serial killers: you want to torture me, no need to shove needles under my fingernails or chop off my limbs…just make me listen to a long, confusing drawn out story about why your boss at work is an idiot. You won’t even have to kill me. I’ll kill myself just to avoid that again.
Finally, hung-over Essa got a reprieve. The sleep strangler drove her back to her car. But escape would not come easily. No, the sleep strangler wanted her number.
I was fully prepared to give a fake number but again, the sleep strangler outsmarted me. He snatched my phone and sent himself a message from it, thereby giving himself a verified phone number.
So I went full black out mode when he texted me.
Don’t tell me I should have just let him down gently, because that is what full black out mode is! A one night stand is supposed to be a one night stand. We both know the score. If I don’t feel a connection with you, especially when you gave me sub par sex before trying to absorb me into your god damn body like a boa constrictor, I am fully entitled to pull the ninja breakup and just disappear.
But sleep strangler doesn’t think so, because last week, nearly one and a half years after our horrible, horrible night together, I got yet another text from him, complaining that he ‘felt used.”
So finally I responded, “You couldn’t have been used. That would indicate you actually did some fucking work.”
To this day, every potential hookup I see in a club, as our eyes meet and we both know exactly what we want to do, as we feel the initial glow of attraction, there is a small niggling thought at the back of my mind that keeps me from closing the deal.
Could this be another sleep strangler? Could I be dealing with yet another hot guy who thinks he can give nothing in the bedroom, because ‘all chicks want relationships’ and we’re supposed to do all the work to impress them? Do guys really think this? That chicks are so desperate for a dude that they’ll tolerate really bad sex, for a night of over the top cuddling and regular obnoxious texts filled with really, really annoying emoticons?
That niggling thought has so depressed me that I’ve elected to go from “one night only girl” to “my vibrator keeps me from being lonely girl.”
But this has had an alternate side effect that has made me a lot of money. All that pent up sexual frustration? That goes right back into my books. All the stuff I wish guys would really do? Right back into my books. Why deal with a boring beta male when I can write myself my own hot alpha male?
It’s made to order sex and I never have to deal with a potential sleep strangler because of that. So yeah, my life is a never ending sex romp, because fantasy kicks reality’s ass ever single time.