Tips for Writing a Young Adult Novel

As you all know, I like to delve into various writing styles. I write in everything from technical non-fiction, to pulp novels to erotica. But there is one area I have never tried out before…until now.

If we’ve learned anything from Stephenie Meyer or Jaime McGuire, writing young adult romance is a fucking goldmine! If they can do it, why can’t I?

And why can’t you for that matter? As I was researching into this, I found many of the following common themes that I am going to use to make me a quadrillionaire.

So here are my tips for writing a shitty young adult novel that will have readers banging down your door for more. Then, you can cash in again by writing the same story from the heroes point of view.

Essa’s Tips for Writing a Shitty Young Adult Novel

  1. Your heroine must be beautiful, but she must have no idea that she’s beautiful To underline this lack of confidence, she should regularly trip over her own feet and she must dress like a bag lady…right up until her gay BFF gives her a makeover.
  2. She must have a gay BFF. Gay BFFs have three benefits. Number one, they show other girls how trendy we are. Number two, they show boys that other boys like us. Number three, those straight boys won’t be intimidated because our gay BFF isn’t competition. Because god forbid a chick be friends with a guy who is straight.
  3. The boy must qualify as a bad boy, but he also must be redeemable. See, in real life, these high school bad boys with the tattoos and the muscles spend all their time being tough and cool, instead of getting good grades and applying for colleges. After high school, these bad boys trade in their motorcycles for jobs pumping gas and peddling small amounts of weed to local teenagers. At night, they become ‘that creepy old dude’ at the high school kid’s parties. But in the novel world, the bad boy is secretly a genius who only needed the love of a good woman to set him on the right track.
  4. All the other girls in your book, aside from the kooky, weirdly overprotective best friend, are sluts and bitches who want nothing more than the leading man. Actually, every single woman on the planet should be obsessed with the leading man, even the lesbians. Because lesbians don’t exist in the young adult world. Only sluts, bitches and the kooky best friend exist.
  5. Never underestimate the power of exclamation points! Exclamation points make everything more exciting! Why describe how exciting something is when you can just phone it in with punctuation!
  6. Every man on the planet who isn’t the leading man is a nefarious, evil stalker who will eventually attempt to rape the female lead…if she hasn’t been raped already. Because there is nothing more romantic than a graphic attempted rape scene in novel aimed at young adults.
  7. The hero must commit several felonies to prove his love for the heroine, up to and including; beating the shit out of any guy who dares talk to the heroine, kidnapping the heroine, breaking into her house or repeatedly stalking her. These same crimes would usually be creepy if an ugly guy did it, but the hero gets away with it because he’s hot.
  8. When in doubt, also make the bad boy a vampire or werewolf…fuck it, make him a werewolf/vampire/pirate.

All right people, I’ve got to get to work on this. I’m estimating I can churn out one book like this a week for the foreseeable future. After that, all there is left to do is count my money.

Easy, Breezy…How About a Dose of Reality?

Today, something that most people call inspiring kind of set me off. Specifically, it’s the new Cover Girl, “Girls Can” campaign.

There are so many things I hate. I hate peas and cold weather. I hate fan fiction. I hate Kirk Cameron, the Taliban and people who clap when the plane lands.

But above all, I hate being patronized.

In case you haven’t seen this ‘inspiring’ new gem, it features a group of female celebrities, who normally, I don’t hate. These ladies spend the entire commercial talking about how hard it is to reach the top as a woman in music, business, and a whole host of other industries that are apparently allergic to vaginas.

This is all done for a campaign for a make-up company.

Now look, I’m not one of those chicks who hates make-up. I rarely wear it, because I can’t find a color scheme that matches my sweatpants, but I don’t hate it.

What I hate is that an industry that is completely dependent on making women feel like they’re not good enough unless they’re pretty has the balls to jump on the “girl power” train. What I hate is that a company that claims to be so women focused has a board of directors that’s 60% male.

I hate being patronized and I had the phrase ‘girl power’ or anything to do with ‘empowering woman’ because I find it entirely patronizing.

Nothing makes me want to smack a chick in the chops more than the phrase “girl power.” It’s usually spewed out after a bunch of shots of Jose Cuervo, after said girl just got dumped and has decided to “give up on men” and “just focus on me for awhile”.

Even though I give an agreeable smile and down my own shot, I get annoyed. Why?

Ladies, ask yourself this? Has a man ever done this? Has any dude you’ve even known shouted out ‘boy power” as he downs a shot and said that he didn’t care about picking up, he just wants to focus on himself? No?

Hold on while I recover from my shock.

Ladies, straight up; it’s patronizing. While you’re shrieking out ‘girl power’ you’re making it clear that you had no power of your own to begin with. When you say, “I’m just gonna focus on me,” you’re indicating that you weren’t before. And I know, two months from now, no matter how much ‘focusing on you’ you’re trying to do, you’ll have some unemployed douche bag living on your couch because you’re afraid of dying alone.

Because you’re not powerful. You’re just using a phrase that rich white dudes came up with to sell lipstick.

People who are actually powerful never have to tell others that they’re powerful. It’s obvious from their actions. When woman who are powerful say “I succeeded despite the fact that I’m a woman,” they’re not taking a stand for feminism. They’re simply making it sound like there’s something wrong with being a woman.

And when they start saying dumb shit like ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can!’ it sounds a lot to me like of case of protesting too much. It’s patronizing.

The fact is, some girls can’t. Just like boys, some girls are stupid and lack talent and would have never made it to begin with. It’s not because they’re girls. It’s just because they suck.

And yelling ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can’ all night isn’t going to change that, no matter how many celebrities you stick in your ads.

4th of July – You Need to Earn the Right to be Proud

In a few minutes, I’m going to go outside, light something on fire and shoot my gun up into the air. No, not because it’s 4th of July. Mainly, because it’s Friday and I’ve been day drinking since noon.

I like being American. I like being American because America is me. America is a good looking, aggressive, capitalist loving, loud-mouthed country that loves talking shit. It frequently gets into fights for no reason, and gets itself involved in fights that are none of its business. It tells others what to do, despite that fact that it’s a broke, substance abusing mess. It never admits it’s wrong and when something makes it really mad, it blows something up.

I’m pretty sure that is how most of my friends would describe me. I’m super glad that I was lucky enough to be born in a country that I have so much in common with.

But I’m not ‘proud to be an American.” To me, being proud actually indicates you did something to earn that pride. Being born an American was a lucky accident of my birth. I didn’t earn being an American. It was given to me by the benevolent flying spaghetti monster. For that I’m grateful.


But I’m not proud.

I’m proud of my novels. I’m proud of the time I served in the military. Hell, I’m proud of the fact that I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. I earned those things because I worked for them, so I am proud of them.

I wouldn’t say that I’m proud to be white or proud to be blond. Those were genetics. I had nothing to do with that. Am I glad? Hell yeah! I can’t dance and I could never get one of those complicated handshakes down. I really wouldn’t be able to pull off being black and I’m not sexy enough to be Hispanic. So I’m glad to be white, but I’m not proud to be white.

And I’m not proud to be an American.

Ironically, the people who actually deserve the right to claim they are proud to be Americans are the ones who get bitched at the most for being here in the first place.


The people that crawl through the desert in the dead of night to get past the border, or pay their life savings to arrive in someone’s trunk should be proud. The people that come here on makeshift life rafts, paddling their way across an ocean that is more likely to kill them than help them deserve to be proud. The people who come here seeking asylum because they spoke out against their own country’s corruption and crimes against humanity deserve to be proud. The people who have to study for and take a citizenship test that most of us born-and-bred Americans couldn’t pass deserve to be proud.

Those people wanted to be here enough to risk their lives for it. They faced imprisonment for it and they gave up everything for it, including their wealth and families. Who does that remind me of?

Oh yeah, these guys.


Yes, I’m pro-immigration and pro-open borders, and it’s not just because of my love of Hispanic pool boys. It’s because if someone cares enough to come here, whatever the risk, I think they deserve to be here.

“E pluribus Unum” isn’t just some silly Latin phrase on our money. It means something. Specifically, it means “out of many, one.”

It was the original endorsement for immigration and it was made when this country first started, when people actually had to struggle and fight to be here and to make this our country….and also kill a fuckload of Native Americans, but I’m going to go ahead and gloss over that one in honor of the holiday.

Those people were proud Americans and the people that fight to be here are proud Americans.

But I’m not a proud American. I am a very lucky girl who was born 3 hours south of the Canadian border. I could have just as easily been Canadian…and I’m a fuckload of glad I wasn’t. I’m far too rude to be Canadian.

So happy 4th, from one glad American, who was lucky enough to be born in a country arrogant enough to call itself the greatest nation on earth. America, we were made for each other.

Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go indiscriminately fire some bullets into the sky and blow up a trash can with a cherry bomb.



Dear Cashier, Your Flirting is Wasted Here

As you know, I frequent a little place called “Gas Station” for purchasing my addiction necessary items; i.e. cigarettes and beer. No, I’m not making the name up or changing it. This place is actually just called “Gas Station.”

gas station

I can respect that kind of marketing transparency.

What I can’t respect is you, new cashier. You have started playing the obnoxious dating game that I hate so much, despite the fact that I want nothing more to do with you than beer and cigarette purchases.

Let me give you the dating game in four stages, in case it’s unclear.

  1. Outright flirting “gee, your eyes are blue.” “I like your hair like that.”
  2. Passive aggressive flirting. “You’d look prettier in orange.” “Why don’t you leave your hair down?”
  3. Playing hard to get. “Oh, I can’t wait on you now. I’m busy answering my fucking cell phone.”
  4. Outright hostility. “Do you need to drink this much beer?” “Despite the fact that I see you 14 times a day, I need to see some ID.”

Apparently, new cashier, you have decided we’re in some type of relationship because I go to your store on a regular basis. I have been put through all of the obnoxious stages of flirting, from outright flirting, to outright hostility, despite the fact that I have no interest in you whatsoever.

Look at me. I show up at your fucking store in sweatpants with hair that hasn’t been brushed in a week and I bitch about period cramps as I slip an economy pack of tampons onto your register. I am making no effort to impress you. This is not part of the mating ritual. You are supposed to be my safe zone. I shouldn’t have to deal with your fucking mind games because I never promised you anything but the $4.23 a day it costs to support my nicotine addiction.

But you still manage to get offended by me refusing to date you. Really, you should be thankful. I’m a terrible human being. But you need to stop being offended, because you aren’t my type.

Let’s make this crystal clear. In order to even the playing field, because I’m Barbie with a brain, you must be one of two things to date me.

  1. You must be much better looking than me.
  2. You must be smarter than me.

I meet the guys I date by stumbling into shirtless models outside of Abercrombie and Finch, or by trolling Mensa meetings. I have never, and will probably never, pick up a cashier at the convenience store because he’s holding my beer and cigarettes hostage. I’m better looking than you (even on a sweatpants day). I guarantee I’m smarter than you, because right off the top off my head I can think of 11 different alternatives to working at a convenience store.

So stop with the bullshit. We’re not soul mates; we never even dated. I barely know you and I don’t give a shit about you.

I know you think that you have all the power, because you stand behind the register, but you don’t. There are at least 34 different convenience stores I could go to in a four block radius. I used to choose yours, because I used to enjoy it. Then they hired you, and they ruined it.

I’m not usually the kind of chick who makes complaints; I’m far too lazy to do that. But I’m seriously thinking about having your ass fired. Because when you think about it, who is management going to side with?

The totally replaceable dude they’re paying $6.00 an hour to, who makes his customers wait while he makes imaginary calls on his cell phone?

Or are they going to side with me, the chick whose beer and cigarette purchases are putting their kids through college? Trust me bro, I push it, you’ll be out of there faster than I can say namastē.

Save your novice college games for the girls who will actually play them and get me my beer and cigarettes without wasting my fucking time. I’m not at Gas Station to flirt. I am here to buy what I need to buy and move the fuck on. You want to play games, know that my game playing skills come in at the advanced level. Expect some slashed tires.

Namaste, bitch.

Essa Writes a Soap Opera – Or Was She Pushed?

So I’ve been sucked into a soap opera. Yes, I know they are filled with clichés, plot holes and one dimensional characters, but I am a sucker for a good story and soap operas tend to deliver.

My current obsession is Hollyoaks. Also, if any of you motherfuckers reveal who killed Fraser Black in the comments, I will hunt you down and murder you.


Living in a soap opera world is much more difficult to navigate than living in reality. You have amnesia, who-dunnits, evil twins and people coming back to life several times over before they actually die.

Which is why I have decided to write my own soap opera, casting myself as the lead detective.

Chantilly Flats – An Essa Alroc Production

Detective Essa Alroc wakes in the early morning as her phone starts to ring. Muttering, she checks the display; Chantilly Flats Police Department.

Essa: <sits up in bed and her hair is absolutely perfect, despite the fact that she’s been sleeping for 8 hours>. This is the last thing I need after finding out that my bi-sexual husband has been having an affair with my gardener Filipe, who also might be my secret love child that I gave up for adoption. <She answers the phone> Detective Alroc here.

Officer Eric Mendelson: Sorry to wake you up so early boss. But we got a murder on our hands. Jackson Bedford has gone missing and all clues point to him being dead.

Essa: <Rolls her eyes> Do you have an actual body?

Officer Eric Mendelson: Well, no but there is a lot of blood in his car, and we found it abandoned in the woods. Plus, he got into a fight with just about everyone in town last night, including me…and you…and his cat. All signs point to murder.

Essa: <deep heartfelt sigh> Listen, we both know how shit works in Chantilly Flats. I go out there, all gung-ho and arrest somebody, have them put on death row, then six months from now Jackson Bedford shows up claiming he has amnesia and doesn’t remember who tried to kill him. Let’s cut to the chase. I’ll start this murder investigation when you drag Jackson Bedford’s cold dead corpse onto my doorstep.

Officer Eric Mendelson: But I don’t have time to find the body. My sister-in-law is about to give birth to my secret love child and I need to get to the hospital in time to switch babies and…

Essa: <hangs up the phone>

Four hours later, Essa’s phone rings. It interrupts Filipe as he tries to climb in bed with her to have potentially incestuous relations in order to blackmail her later.

Essa: Filipe, get the fuck out of my bed! I might be your mother for Christ’s sake. <answers the phone after seeing the call is coming from the Chantilly Flats Police Department.> You got me a body?

Officer Eric Mendelson: Yes boss. Right on your front stoop. It’s definitely Jackson Bedford.

Essa:  Hopefully, I can get this done in time to make it to my disciplinary hearing. You know, from when I let the Olgavie sisters off with a warning for murdering their uncle, who’d been sexually abusing them for years. Now gather every single person in town right to my front yard.

Officer Eric Mendelson: All of them? There’s like 14 people in Chantilly Flats.

Essa: Just fucking do it. I’ll be right down.

Essa arrives in the late afternoon, after having yet another fight with her bisexual husband, who is concerned because he might have testicular cancer. She stands at the podium in front of all 14 of the residents of Chantilly Flats.

Essa: Listen, I’m sick of these small town who-dunnits dragging on for months, so we’re going to take care of this right now. Everyone who had a fight with Jackson Bedford on the night of his death, raise your hand. <Every single hand goes up, including the paw of Jackson Bedford’s cat.> Great, now every single person who can’t name their alibi because you were screwing your sister or brother-in-law at the time of the incident, go away.

Eight people walk away, including Officer Eric Mendelson and Jackson Bedford’s cat.

Essa: Next, does anyone here have a drug problem which would prevent them from remembering the night in question? <Two hands go up> Good to know. Leave and check out your local AA chapter. It won’t help, but it will provide some interesting drug addict story fodder next season.

The two drug addicts walk away and Essa is left with four suspects.

Essa: Alright people, let’s hear some motives.

Karen Bedford: He was my husband and he was cheating on me with his secretary, who is also my secret half sister.

Lisa Nichols: I’m his secretary and he was blackmailing me into sleeping with him for years, because he knew that I killed my first husband and held my step kids captive in an attic. We have a secret love child together that he threatened to kill. It’s also in the attic.

Marcus Salinger: I’m his right hand man in his drug empire and I was having an affair with his wife. I also might be his secret love child.

Lilly Anderson: I’m a 14 year old girl scout. When I went to Bedford’s house, he refused to pay for the Thin Mints he ordered. Also, I have a brain tumor that causes brief periods of uncontrollable rage.

Essa considers all the information she’s heard. Drawing on years of tela-nova and soap opera watching, she realizes who did it.

Essa: Lisa, Karen, you can both go. No woman ever kills a man when she should in Chantilly Flats. Marcus, you can go. You are too obvious a suspect. Also, I’m pretty sure you’re my secret love child. Lilly, I know exactly what happened. You and Bedford wrestled over the Thin Mints. Bedford was a diabetic who had just gone into psychosis because he refused to take his insulin. He pulled a gun on you. You wrestled over the gun and in your panic, accidentally shot him.

Lilly: How did you know?

Essa: What can I say? I have too much time on my hands and I watch way too much TV.

Essa’s statement is interrupted by the sudden, shocking appearance of Jackson Bedford.

Jackson Bedford: Wait, that isn’t me <he points to the corpse on the ground>. It’s my evil twin. I only showed up now because I had amnesia.

Essa: Oh, fuck this. I’m moving.












Things That Confuse Me

I’ve never claimed to be the smartest person in the world. Well… actually I have, on several occasions. But rest assured, I was entirely drunk when I did so.

My point is I am at best above average on the intelligence scale. But there are still several things in this world that confuse me. So I would like some clarification on the following.

Why the hell do my maxi pads have diagrams?

For men and really stupid women, a maxi pad is something that teenage girls and lazy writers with tilted pelvic bones use during their monthly menstrual cycle. What confuses me is that the inside of my maxi pad looks like this;


Ignore the shirt on the lower right. I’m pretty sure that’s just something designed to show how ‘athletic’ maxi pads can be.

Is my menstrual flow supposed to be reading this diagram? Are my unfertilized eggs that smart that they know exactly where they are supposed to go? If so, should I feel guilty for the fact that I’m flushing them down the toilet? I mean, I won’t eat pork because pigs are smarter than dogs and that bothers me. If my unused eggs are smart enough to follow the diagram on a maxi pad, should I be throwing them away at all? Or should I be enrolling them in an Ivy League school?

Also, why blue for the diagram? Trust this people, the second I start seeing blue stuff leaking out of me; I’m not worried about staying ‘dry and fresh.’ I’m more worried about the fact that apparently I’m miscarrying an alien’s baby.

Why do people play the lottery?

I used to consider playing the lottery, then I elected to start lighting my money on fire and flushing it down the toilet instead becuase I realized the lottery is for idiots.

I’m not talking to you occasional hopefuls who buy a ticket on the way home from work. I’m talking to all you fucktards out there who choose scratch tickets like you’re choosing your first born’s name.

You know who you are. You show up at the gas station at rush hour and take 45 minutes trading in tickets to buy more tickets to a lottery that you will never win.

Listen fuckers, in the time that it takes you to pick out those tickets every day, you could have written a novel, created a cure for cancer or more realistically, GOTTEN A FUCKING JOB.

The house always wins. Whether you’re playing at a craps table or scratching off little grey boxes, you will always lose. But the lottery commission depends on one thing to keep selling tickets.

They depend on you being a fucking moron. Stop playing right into their hands.

Where the hell did Tilapia come from?

Ten years ago, I had no idea that this fish existed.


Now, it’s everywhere. At any restaurant I go to, tilapia is on the menu. When I was in the hospital, I even got served tilapia during the daily meal I ignored because I was too drugged up to eat. As I recall, it smelled like feet and tasted two items as bad.

The best way I could describe the flavor is ‘cardboard flavored death.’ But now it’s popping up everywhere. It’s like reality TV shows. One day I saw one, and the next day, the world was overrun. I’m pretty sure the government manufactured tilapia out of cardboard and old ashtrays in an attempt to make fun of hipsters.

It’s working.

What does the ‘power of prayer’ really do?

This week, Tracy Morgan was seriously injured in a car accident. That isn’t news. But what I saw in the comments is news, because apparently there are idiots who feel they can save Tracy Morgan through the power of prayer.

First of all, the fact that Tracy Morgan is a celebrity does not make him any more important than the people that were on the bus with him, who were also seriously injured (or killed).

Next, what the fuck are your prayers supposed to do?

Let’s be honest. You don’t know Tracy Morgan. If he dies tomorrow, you might open your Facebook page and be like “oh, so sad, I will pray for his family. :( :(”

But you won’t really pray and you won’t be sad. You’re just saying that. You don’t know him, his family or what they’re going through. You’re just using him as an excuse to sound like a good person.

My bible knowledge tells me this. You can’t pray for someone to live or die. It doesn’t work like that. According to the Catholics, everything is predefined and whatever happens to one person will be god’s will, and can’t be changed. You can only pray for your own acceptance of that fate.

So why the fuck are you idiots wasting time praying? If you really want to honor Tracy Morgan, head to Vegas, get wasted and snort some coke off a hooker’s ass.

Above all, stop bringing god into this mess. It isn’t your place to pray for Tracy Morgan, no matter how much you liked him as Brian Fellows. It’s his family’s place so back the fuck off and let them grieve in peace. Stop stealing their grief so you can get attention.

That’s all I had to say. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go buy some lottery tickets so I can buy candles for Tracy Morgan at midnight mass, because he is the most important person in the world to me. My menstrual eggs are also coming. They followed the maxi pad diagram right out of my pants and used a very complicated algorithm to buy their own winning lottery tickets.

Good times.







No…Not Everything is Misogyny

Let me introduce you all to one of the most overused words in the English language.

Misogyny – reflecting or exhibiting hatred, dislike, mistrust, or mistreatment of women.

You know what, over the top feminists? When you label everything as misogyny, nothing is misogyny. Misogyny becomes the new normal.

I saw a movie review today that labelled Seth MacFarlane’s most recent movie, A Million Ways to Die in the West, as misogynistic.

Bullshit. Personally, I think when it comes to hard hitting issues, Seth Macfarlane is actually one of the most PC people on the planet. You know why? Because he doesn’t shy away from the offensive to keep from hurting the delicate ladies’ sensibilities. Instead, he treats the women in his films like people who are capable of doing things wrong, being stupid, being promiscuous and in short, being human. He doesn’t pin a scarlet A on his character’s chests because they enjoy a good time. You know who really does?


You know what I find misogynistic? Lifetime “Television for Women.” Every damn movie on that channel deals with some woman being a victim because she’s a woman. Let me give you the formula for every Lifetime original movie ever written.

Innocent leading woman is living a normal, near Puritan style life. Then, the men with their evil man penises come along and destroy that independent lifestyle. When the woman goes for help, all the evil men with their man penises laugh at her weaknesses because she’s just a poor little woman. Then, through the power of prayer, therapy, macramé…fucking whatever, she rises above it.

Lifetime is the ideal example of misogyny, because they portray all women as either Madonnas or whores. Any woman who enjoys sex, or god forbid has nudie photos taken, has low self-esteem and daddy issues. She can never just be a chick who likes to have fun. Women are perpetual victims.

I have never seen a Lifetime movie that I did not find utterly obnoxious and condescending. Not only are they insulting to women, they also portray men in an unflattering, unreasonably evil way.

Let me give an example and a non-example of real misogyny.

Misogyny – a woman at a university gets raped and a police officer investigating the rape says women shouldn’t dress like sluts to avoid being attacked. That’s misogyny.

Not misogyny – A woman is raped at a university and the university hands out pamphlets warning women of the danger in a specific area. Nope, not misogyny. It’s actually just common sense.

I’ve seen several recent news stories lately where people actually complained about this. Women would say “why are they handing us pamphlets on how to not get raped? Shouldn’t they be handing out pamphlets telling rapists not to rape?”

I’m sure in some rainbow covered universe, that would be the best way to go about things, but again, that universe wouldn’t have rapists, now would it? The truth is that these sex offenders and criminals know they’re wrong. No amount of pamphlets are going to fix them.

But a warning might remind a woman to be vigilant to avoid becoming a victim.

So why the hell is it misogyny or ‘promoting a rape culture’ to warn women of the dangers?

When I park in a parking garage in Orlando, and a sign warns me to lock up my car and take my valuables with me, I don’t accuse the city of Orlando of perpetrating a ‘theft culture.’

I lock my fucking car and I take my valuables with me because I’m not stupid. I know bad things happen and I know that I need to be vigilant in order to prevent those bad things from happening to me.

Because the world isn’t misogynistic. It’s just filled with assholes.

Look, when you accuse every man of hating women, when you blame men for all the problems women have and when you accuse all people who don’t worship at the all-mighty temple of the vagina of being misogynists, you are part of the problem.

You are part of the problem because you dilute the real problem with a bunch of stupid problems based in rhetoric, gender neutral language and some desperate desire to be offended for any reason.

Stop over-using misogyny. Every movie that doesn’t portray a woman in a favorable light is not misogyny. Every person who suggests women learn how to defend themselves isn’t a misogynist and suggesting that every lady ever born is not some kind of saint/angel/vagina goddess is not ‘perpetrating a rape culture.’

It’s life. Some people are assholes. Some people aren’t. If you aren’t one of those assholes, it’s up to you to protect yourself from those who are.

That isn’t misogyny. It’s just common sense.

Let’s Explain the Comment System Again

A few days ago, I wrote a post about my home town. This post is starting to take up far too much of my time, because people reading clearly don’t understand my comments policy.

Here’s my policy; I’m a fucking bitch. I will be mean to you if you insult me. I will pull statistics that prove you wrong and I will attack you even if your insult is veiled and passive aggressive. If you insult my writing style, I will attack you. I won’t just calmly say “different strokes for different folks.”

This is what I do for a living. You telling me I’m doing it wrong is like me showing up at whatever McDonalds you work at and complaining you’re dropping fries wrong. This is my job and I’m doing it just fine without your assistance.

Sending a poorly spelled message where I need to hire a translator in order to decipher what you’re saying will make me attack you. Insulting me directly will make me attack you. Being a passive aggressive asshole will make me attack you.

I’m sorry I didn’t make this clear, but I’ll go ahead and do it now. I write for a living. I’m mean for a living. I am controversial for a living. Half the time. when I yell at you, I’m not even angry. I’m just doing what comes natural to me.

Yes, I know the post on my home town went viral. You know what? I didn’t fucking ask for that. It just started getting shared because apparently more than a few people thought I was right. I didn’t start slapping that post up on people’s pages and demanding they share it. Apparently, they agreed that your town was going to shit. All I did was shine a light on those problems.

Attacking me will fix nothing.

In fact, it will do nothing more than get your feelings hurt, because trust this; I know how to hurt feelings.

So let’s explain the comment system again, to the people from my home town who apparently think I’m going to take it easy on them.

I’m mean and I am incredibly good at being mean. Hurting your feelings if you piss me off will not keep me up at night. In addition, Essa on Everything is MY page. It’s syndicated and I get money for it. The more controversy I cause, the more money I make.

But that isn’t even half the reason I’m mean. I know that my disclaimer states ‘warning, posts on this site might be factually inaccurate…”

Here’s the thing; that’s a little thing called tongue-in-cheek humor. I self depreciate on a regular basis to make myself seem more human, but deep down, I know I’m much, much better than you are at being a sarcastic bitch.

I know I’m right. I did the math and I did the research. I wouldn’t have written the post if I didn’t. When you argue with me, I have no problem proving that point.

Maybe you all didn’t get the way the internet works. Maybe you think I’m supposed to coddle you and suddenly change my opinion because you disagree with me.

Let me explain a little more thoroughly; I don’t give a shit if you agree with me and your opinion means shit to me. That’s why this page is called “Essa on Everything” and not “Random Asshole on Everything.”

As a reminder, the comment system works as follows.

  1. The only opinion that really matters on this page is mine. If you have a problem with that, start your own page. It won’t be as popular, but at least it will be yours.
  2. I don’t usually call people out on spelling and grammar, but if you have a 90% error rate in a ten word sentence, if you don’t know how to use a comma and if you’ve sent me 14 random run on sentences in text speak, expect me to wreck you for it. That’s just disrespectful. I make an effort to ensure that my page is as error free as possible before I put it up. If I can do that, I expect my commentators to do that when their comments are only 10 words long.
  3. I had regular fans before these Berlin shenanigans started. A LOT of regular fans. I WILL protect those fans. If you post a comment attacking one of my prior friends/fans opinions I will either delete it, or I’ll attack your ass. It really depends on how much I’ve been drinking. But I will respect and protect that fan base, because they aren’t just my fans anymore. They are my friends and it is my responsibility to take care of them.

This is MY page. I’ve earned my following and no, I don’t need feedback on my writing style. Enough people like me to keep me in leather pants and candy apples every month. You will not attack my friends, you will not attack my family and you will not attack me without dealing with the consequences.

You don’t want to tangle with me. I’ve been doing this too long to back down now. My livelihood depends on taking you in a fight…so guess how seriously I take it when you post an offensive comment on my site? If your answer is ‘rage induced verbal attack that will haunt you and your family to your grave’ you might be in the neighborhood.

So the comment policy? Disregard it if you want, but let’s see what happens when you piss me off. I don’t pull punches and nothing is off limits to me if you cross those boundaries.

Trust this; I’ve turned being angry, drunk and offensive into a lifestyle.


In the Next Year – An Essa Birthday Special

Today I turned 34. Now I must say my life is a lot better at 34 than it was at 24. Based on the fact that my happiness seems to double every 10 years, I’m pretty sure being 44 will kick ass.

But I need to put some plans in place if I want to make it to 44. So as my demographic changes from the ‘young persons box’ to the ‘adult’ box, I have made the following changes.

I will stop cyber stalking people that piss me off.

Seriously, there is nothing more I like in the world than starting a fight. Unfortunately, those fights seem to suck up a lot of my time. I mean, what’s more interesting? Writing a 700 world article on the benefits of RLSA in a paid search advertising campaign, or hunting down a hate mailer’s personal details and posting all his info on Craigslist with a discreet request for some hardcore S&M man-on-man action? Can you blame me for being immature and choosing the latter?

But I am a professional and I need to spend more time actually working as opposed to pretending to work while I hunt some poor internet douchebag down so I can call him at home at 3 am…14 times in a row. Jesus, I have got to stop drinking.

I will stop drinking…so much

I’m pretty sure I have 4 out of 7 of the early signs of liver failure. On the upside, I’m losing weight like crazy. 6 pounds in a week? Most cancer patients on chemo can’t brag about that much. It’s easy to lose weight when your diet consist of hops, barely and disdain.

So I will stop drinking so much. I will do the responsible thing.

I’ll switch to marijuana.

I will be less afraid of bugs

I have had the same dead roach on my bathroom floor for the past few days, because I’m afraid of picking it up. I’m not sure if it’s dead. To anyone who has ever dealt with a roach, you know the second you pick that thing up to throw it away, it starts twitching around and freaks you the fuck out. Seriously, they’re like the terminator. Just DIE already.

I’ll publish enough to live on my book sales.

Right now, I can live on the royalties alone. Hell, I sold 1509 books in the month of May, but that will taper off. I’m planning on living on my royalties for the summer while I expand my catalog. Expect to see the end of the Strangely Sober series in July, as well as the beginning of the Blue Suede series in August. Then expect my lazy ass to take a few months off while I roll around in a giant pile of money.

I’ll start brushing my hair again

Yeah, I haven’t in weeks and I don’t even have cute white girl dreadlocks anymore. Instead, my hair has congealed into a tennis ball sized mass at the back of my head. Before you call me out on my lack of grooming, you need to understand what it is to be a Floridian.

Namely, the second you step out of your shower, you already start to sweat and feel dirty again. Something like that will really kill your motivation to look pretty. Your only goal becomes preventing yourself from dissolving into a ball of humid goo. Hair-brushing tends to take second place.

That doesn’t work as well when your hair reaches your waist. So either I’ll start brushing it, or I’ll just get drunk and cut it all off, but either way, I will make a decision.

It’s amazing to me how much the past few years have changed my life. I haven’t seen the inside of a cubicle in two years and I’ve been avoiding my student loan officer for the same amount of time. I’ve gained a fan following, gained a following of anti-fans and might even have a hate site by now. I’ve written 6 books, pissed off men, pissed off women, pissed off everyone in my home town, learned how to buy weed on the internet and learned how to tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue.

I have a feeling that 34 is going to be a kick ass year.








“Are You This Much of an (Insert Slur Here) In Real Life?”

I recently wrote a couple of offensive posts (shocker, right?) that have garnered a few email responses. One thing that I get allot in these emails is;

“Are you this much of a cunt in real life, or are you just hiding behind the internet?”

To be honest, it’s a little bit of both. Much like any other emotion, cuntiness is purely situational.

I don’t believe that anyone is a bitch 100% of the time. When I worked in insurance, I used to have to deal with this zoo owner whenever one of her employees got injured. Let me tell you straight off, she was a fucking bitch. Seriously, she was a nightmare of a human being and I used to dread contacting her. She was the type of person who could take the most innocuous question, and turn it into a personal attack. She couldn’t even make small talk without getting offended.

Me: It sure has been cold out lately.

Her: No it hasn’t. God, everyone in this state is such a pussy. You all bitch about the weather, and you have no idea what cold it really is. Jesus, you people are friggen useless. It’s like the air you breathe is wasted.

There were times I considered driving to this cunt’s house and slashing her tires. She ruined my day on a regular basis for about 6 months straight. Just saying her name to me, nearly five years later, is enough to make my hands clench into fists of rage and make me start grinding my teeth.

One day, I Googled her and I found some surprising information. She was a complete pushover when it came to animals. She even had a moose that she raised since it was a baby, staying up nights, feeding it with a bottle. There was a video of her on the internet singing that damn moose to sleep, I shit you not.

It occurred to me that as much as I thought she was a cunt, that moose probably thought she was the greatest person on the planet. While that thought didn’t stop me from wanting to slash her tires, it did stop me from assuming she was a cunt to everyone.

I admit I can be a bitch. Much like the zookeeper, I have my hot button issues. Just today, as I was driving through my neighborhood, a 12-year-old boy tried to stare me down after taking his sweet-assed time crossing the street.

I immediately pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked the little fucker what his problem was. He ran away and I had to resist the urge to chase him down. Not fucking around people, I came about 2 inches from kicking a 12-year-old’s ass today all because I didn’t like the way he looked at me.

If that isn’t being a cunt, I don’t know what is.

But I’m not always a cunt. In fact, most people who interact with me find me very pleasant, because I’m pretty laid back. I’m polite to service people, I give money to homeless people, and I only flip people off in traffic when it’s absolute necessary (like they just nearly killed me…or they have a Sarah Palin bumper sticker)

But no, I’m not a cunt all the time. I have situational cuntiness.

When someone contacts me in my personal space, like on my blog, and is rude, I am a cunt. When a man treats me like an idiot because I was born without testicles, I am a cunt.

When a child somehow thinks he’s tougher than me and can stare me down, even after I’ve generously decided to not run him over with my car for delaying my beer run, I am a cunt.

But no, rest assured, I am not this much of a cunt in real life. In fact, most times, I’m only a cunt for one childish reason.

Namely, you started it.


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