When you ask someone what they think of as the most romantic movie scene, you can generally expect a pretty cookie cutter response. They might mention the prow scene on ‘Titanic’. They might mention Harry’s speech in “When Harry Met Sally.” They might mention Noah scaling the Ferris wheel in “The Notebook.”
For me, the most romantic movie scene I can think of occurs at the end of ‘Hannibal’.
Clarice finally thinks she has Hannibal cornered. The cops are on their way. With sirens screaming in the background, she handcuffs Hannibal Lector’s wrist to hers. But Lector has one last trick up his sleeve. He pulls out a meat cleaver. It raises high in the air…fade to black over the sound of one distinct chop.
In the next scene, we learn that Hannibal did escape. We assume that it is because he cleaved off Clarisse’s hand in an attempt to free himself. Then we see him on a train, sharing a boxed lunch with a small boy. The camera pans down and we see his left hand is missing.
Hannibal cut off his own hand, rather than hurt Clarice. Now that is fucking love.
In case you can’t tell, my opinion on love can be pretty extreme. Chasing me down at an airport, singing a stupid song to me, or sending me flowers isn’t going to win me over. If you want me to swoon, you need to be willing to sacrifice a body part.
I always assumed that my extreme nature would result in my dying alone. Then I met you, internet stalker.
We met about a year ago. I’d just posted an article that included three pictures of me. You sent me a long rambling message. You said you were a fan. You told me I was pretty. I thanked you.
The emails kept coming, and they kept getting weirder. One spanned paragraphs and paragraphs. It was long, rambling and incoherent. I have to admit I didn’t understand much of it, but I got the general gist. You loved me…and you wanted to wear my face as a mask.
It was the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to me.
Most women are freaked out by stalkers, but I’m not most women. I spend a lot of time alone. I have nightmares about dying in complete obscurity. I have dreams that I disappear and no one ever notices. Those nightmares go away when you send an email.
Because as long as you’re around, I know there is one person out there who is obsessed enough with me to want me dead…and who fears my death like the apocalypse at the same time.
To me, that is just fucking beautiful.
As long as you exist, I will never cease to matter. For one person out there, I am their whole world. I am the love of their life and a ‘soul sucking, bitch, whore cunt’ all at the same time. I am the girl sending you coded messages in all my posts. My eyes really are looking right at you in my gravitar picture…even though it’s a profile shot and I’m actually looking somewhere off to the left.
I heard somewhere that stalking isn’t about love. It’s about power. I don’t believe that, internet stalker. The balance of power in our relationship is purely one sided. I am the sun by which your universe revolves. You are the guy that sends me weird obsessed messages that actually improve my self esteem. I ignore the threats and I accept the compliments.
Internet stalker, our dysfunctional relationship might be the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. Know that in my own way, I love you. I don’t love you like a lover, or like a brother. I think I love you in the same way Jodie Foster loves John Hinckley Jr. Through his obsession, he made an average looking girl with subpar acting skills a household name.
He made her Clarice…not the one in Hannibal, but you get my drift.
So thank you internet stalker. Most people would tell me not to engage with you, but half the reason you love me is because I never listen to people. You make me feel good. You make me feel relevant. For that, you deserve to be recognized.
And if you ever hit the Orlando, Florida area, there is an empty apartment right across the breezeway where you can see right into my bedroom.
Leaving the blinds open for you,
I think sometimes, people don’t really understand how special a real sense of humor is…
I see this phrase get thrown around a lot. I see it in internet dating ads. “Looking for a sense of humor.” I see it in employment ads. “Must have a sense of humor.” I even see it when I’m looking for new ghostwriting projects. “Need a writer with a sense of humor.”
Do you all realize what a generic requirement that is? Everyone has a sense of humor. There is no person out there that has lived past the age of 3 and not laughed one time. Honestly, senses of humor are like assholes. Everyone has one.
And every one is different.
To me, a ‘good’ sense of humor is the ability to laugh at something, even though it might offend someone or even you personally. Let me tell you a story about one of the finest senses of humor I’ve ever seen.
It’s summer in Sierra Vista, Arizona. Me and my friend Tina are on gate guard duty at the back gate of Fort Huachuca. It’s a boring duty, but we make the time pass by making fun of the tourists that pull up, after mistakenly pulling off the highway too soon on their way to Tucson.
A blue Sedan with Nebraska plates pull up. Inside is a middle aged white couple. They make immediate eye contact with me and avoid Tina entirely.
Let me explain why. I’m white as the day is long, not very big, and extremely non-threatening. I’m soft, squishy and harmless looking. Tina is a midnight black, daughter of Africa, 150 pounds and 5’8” of pure muscle type. When it comes to nervous white people, there’s non threatening black, like Will Smith, and there is threatening black, like Tupac. Tina is Tupac black with extra neck tattoos. Tourists tend to avoid her, especially the white ones.
The Nebraska couple cracks their window a quarter of an inch and screams to me for directions. Here’s the deal, I blow at directions. At this gate, I’m bad cop. I’m in charge of telling tourists to turn around. I’m not the nice one who gives them directions.
She walks up to the car and I literally see the woman in the passenger seat flinch away from her as she leans over the cracked window. She gives them directions and they drive away. She walks back to where I’m standing, shaking her head.
Tina nods. “Yeah, but I can’t wait for the letter the commander is going to get.”
“Yeah,” Tina looks ready to piss herself laughing. “The one that says what a nice, eloquent, colored girl I am.”
That, my friends, is a sense of humor.
When you advertise for a ‘sense of humor’ you might as well advertise for some who ‘knows how to paint.’ Everyone can work a paint brush, but there is only one Picasso.
When you’re a dude looking for a girl on an internet dating site, who has a sense of humor, what I read is ‘I’m not that funny, but I’m not that attractive either. I need someone to tell me I’m special by laughing at my dumb jokes.”
When you’re an employer who tells me you’re looking for a good sense of humor, what I’m seeing is “my last secretary wouldn’t screw me. So I made a bunch of mean jokes at her expense. Then she sued me. I’m really looking for a bitch that will just take it and not fight back.”
A good sense of humor is a special thing. It’s like having a special palette, where you can taste all the flavors of something, even when some are weird. It’s like having the eye for detail that allows you to create a special dress design, which is both flattering to a woman’s body and aesthetically interesting.
A good sense of humor is rare. Stop advertising for it like you’re looking for typing skills. Generally, those of us with a true ‘good sense of humor’ would rather die than work in a cubicle anyway.
Does that mean never getting offended over anything? Hell no. My friend Tina was probably extremely offended the day those people treated her like she was about to car jack them. But she found a way to laugh about it.
Does that mean being intentionally offensive? Absolutely not. I’ve never found Andrew Dice Clay funny. It’s not because I’m an uptight bitch. It’s because his act wasn’t funny. Nothing he said was actually humorous. He was just being offensive for the point of being offensive. That’s not humor. That’s just being a dick.
As far as I’m concerned, George Carlin was the only human being with a sense of humor sophisticated enough to pull off a rape joke.
When you are a truly funny person, offending people is a side effect of your act. It isn’t the goal. You make your jokes and you hope they land. But you accept the fact that eventually, somewhere, someone will get offended. When they do, you brush it off.
Because you know not everyone has a good sense of humor.
Look, I’m never been one of those ass sniffing artists who talks about my ‘art’. I don’t write angst filled poetry or paint pictures of my anger at my father, or some other such bullshit. I’m never going to be literary. I’m never going to win a Pulitzer. I’m cool with that. But I am a god damn artist. I have a true good sense of humor, and it’s a bit rarer than you all think. If you question how important a good sense of humor is, I strongly recommend you check out “A Modest Proposal.” Never underestimate the power of funny.
A good sense of humor isn’t a given…it’s a god damn gift. Stop advertising for that shit when you don’t really mean it. Generally, you can get any idiot to laugh at anything. But only the truly gifted can laugh at something that upsets them.
And only the artists can make a good joke about it in the first place.
Hey people, surprisingly, after last nights post, I’ve stopped getting emails from Manosphere idiots! However, I have gotten a few messages, and one comment, from people who were intrigued by the two color contact manipulation method.
Because I am an all around wonderful human being, I’m going to explain it in more detail right here.
Have you ever seen an old hypnosis movie, where the hypnotist was waving a watch back and forth in front of someone? That’s not just a prop. It’s actually based in science.
The goal is to force the subject’s eyes to move back in forth, to eventually bring on something called REM (rapid eye movement). REM usually only happens when you are deeply asleep and dreaming. REM is a point where the human mind is at its most vulnerable, because the subconscious is wide open and has taken over the conscious.
When REM is induced while someone is awake, they are very vulnerable to manipulation. It’s easy to implant suggestions in them and make them believe what you want them to believe.
Of course, you can’t just go around waving a watch in front of a girl’s face at a club. Instead, you need to be more subtle. That’s where the two different color eyes come in. Once someone notices that they are looking into two different color eyes, they will start to focus on one over the other. They’ll realize what they are doing and try to make direct eye contact again, but they’ll actually just start switching their gaze from one eye to another.
In many cases, this is enough to trigger REM, making the subject vulnerable to manipulation.
Now how much to you all want to bet that the next time I go to a club, it’s going to be filled with guys sporting two different color eyes?
I’m working on something for one of my clients right now. It’s a bit emotional, so I do what I always do when I need to get emotional. I get shitfaced and pray for the god of ‘beer tears’ to help me out. Unfortunately, sometimes, I go a bit the other way and get kind of snarky when I drink. This is one of those times.
This article is kind of one of those ‘power of the universe’ type deals. In it, my reader is supposed to picture her ideal man in her head. The more complete a picture she paints, the more the universe knows what to deliver.
Because that’s how you get what you want in life. You sit around and wish for it.
Anyway, I decided to see how accurate this ideal man thing is. Here is my description universe. Now go ahead and deliver it. I dare you.
Essa’s Ideal Man
My ideal man is 6’4” and 200 lbs…of pure solid gold bedecked in precious gems. Every morning, he arrives at my home promptly at 7:30, and (being very careful not to wake me up) deposits a large bag of money next to me in bed. He then makes my coffee and sets my Roku to play old Charles in Charge reruns as soon as I wake up. Then he leaves.
My ideal man has emerald green eyes. His eyes are emerald green because they are actually made of emeralds. He does not mind when I pluck his eyes out and use them as earrings, or pawn them when I need to buy weed. He’s cool like that.
Ever night, while I’m sleeping, my ideal man comes to my apartment and does my dishes. After that, he cleans, vacuums (completely noiselessly) and does my laundry. My ideal man knows how to fold my shirts in the exact same way that the people at the Gap fold shirts. He also never runs out of hangers.
I rarely see my ideal man, but I can tell he’s been to visit me because my house is filled with bags of money and it’s always clean. My ideal man is a lot like Santa, only he’s not fat, or old and he never leaves socks.
And also he’s made of solid gold.
There we go universe. There is my ideal man, described in as much detail as possible. According to The Secret, all I need to do now is sit on my ass and wait for him to be delivered.
I wonder how much UPS charges for shipping on solid gold men?
I think we all know about my deep disdain for online dating. A lot of this comes from being a writer and a judgmental bitch. If someone can’t be bothered to capitalize or punctuate a sentence, I just assume they’re as lazy in bed as they are in their writing and move on. I’ve actually never found a ‘screwable’ during any online dating session and have decided to continue doing my predatory style pickups at bars for the foreseeable future.
However, I am currently ghostwriting a book and I had to do a little bit of research on a section. This brought me to an online forum where I saw this little gem posted.
You have to be a muscle bound stud, with a nice car and a high powered job to get anyone to respond to you on these sites.
I tried an experiment out on a dating site once — I created a profile of a guy who fitted the above description, and 10/10 women were going fucking crazy to contact me — lapdancers, models, etc, etc. All were cybering me and throwing their numbers at me.
Then I created a profile of a fat bearded guy with glasses. I said I live at home with mum, jobless and love Star Trek. Fuck me, every single one — even the uglies told “me” to get lost.
And I immediately thought ‘holy shit! What an incredible hypothesis! A woman, when given the choice between a handsome man who is financially stable, over a creepy fatty with no job, will go for the handsome guy almost every single fucking time! I wonder if this guy has alerted Harvard to this amazing study! I see a Nobel prize coming for someone…’
Look, assholes who post fake pictures of hot guys and get pissed off when all the girls respond; get bent. Women are under no more moral requirement to be ‘beauty blind’ than men. We are just as entitled to be focused on looks as men are. Take a look at the last 10 or so girls you contacted on these sites before you start throwing stones. Was every single one of them more attractive than average? Then you’re a hypocrite when you complain.
Oh, and I don’t care if you think you’re an 8 out of 10. Apparently, all the girls you’re messaging disagree. You might want to recalibrate that number you’re assigning yourself. To give you some perspective, I have made yet another awesome chart.
Levels of Attractiveness
Yet another awesome chart brought to you by Essa Alroc
Using the scientific methods of measuring facial symmetry, skin tone, skin clarity, height, build and who I am most likely to masturbate to when I’m not thinking about giant piles of money, I think I’ve made a clear and concise list that anyone can use. So dude, when you’re running around saying that you’re an 8, what you’re really saying is that you are as handsome as Blair Underwood.
No, come on, look again. Really?
Because I tell you what, if you’re marching around, looking like Blair Underwood, you have no need for online dating. Women everywhere will be tossing their panties at you out of moving cars.
When I decide to pick up a guy, you know what I do? I approach the hottest guy in the club. It doesn’t matter that he’s a 10 and I’m a sober 6, drunk 7. I am being honest with myself when I do the numbers. Yes, I am conventionally pretty with a nice figure. That makes me slightly better than average. It does not mean that I could compete with Mila Kunis in a beauty pageant and win.
But it doesn’t mean I am somehow required by law to only try to pick up dudes that are also 6’s. I can go after a 10 if I want to. If he shoots me down, I move on to the next guy.
What I don’t do is go online and bitch that all guys are superficial assholes and fuck around with people on dating sites to prove my genius hypothesis. I wasn’t attractive enough for one dude. Big fucking deal. I’m not being a superficial bitch. I’m going after the guy who meets my current needs.
I.e. I need to have an orgasm and the guy who gives it to me needs to be handsome. The handsomer, the better.
A guy who bitches that women all flock after guys with big muscles is about as stupid as a person who complains that all the scholarships at MIT go to mathematical geniuses who got 2100 on the SATs. Um, duh.
Do you know why really attractive people are considered really attractive? Give you a hint; the answer is in the question. Because people are attracted to them, and they approach these attractive people due to that attraction. So, if you get approached by a lot of people, that means you are attractive.
Is does not mean that everyone who doesn’t approach you is a superficial asshole. They’re just not attracted to you. Which, based on my scientific research, would indicate you are not attractive.
Now that my friends, if a fucking hypothesis.*
*well, not really. But at least I made a chart.
I wrote this comment in response to one of the misogynistic assholes who frequent my site. Since I wrote it, that comment has stuck with me constantly. I can’t get it out of my head.
“Patriarchies are dead for a reason.”
That’s right people, I am such a fucking narcissist that I just quoted myself.
I’ve never considered myself a ‘feminist’. There’s really nothing that annoys me more than women bitching about stupid shit like how ‘policemen’ should be called ‘police officers’ or something like that. I hate arguments about semantics because arguments about gender neutral language distract us all from real issues.
I.e. while we’re all arguing about how ‘firemen’ should be called ‘fire fighters’ Capitol hill takes away more constitutional rights. We, like dumb sheep, never even notice. Because we’re busy arguing about gender lines.
I’m not a feminist. I’m an individualist (and possibly a mid level anarchist). However, I agree with the feminists on one thing.
Patriarchies must die.
In case you didn’t know, a patriarchy is a traditional caste system where men are in control and where women are subservient helpers. Your average ‘Donna Reed” family, with a mom who stays home and has babies, while a man tells everyone what to do, is a patriarchy.
I actually came from a patriarchy style family, with a dad who worked as a forestry worker when they were still called lumberjacks, and a mother who focused all her time and attention on her kids. I always felt like my mom got the short end of the stick, because she worked and took care of us, while my dad just worked, came home and did his own thing. My parents divorced when I was in my early 20’s.
I still talk to my mom every day, but I haven’t talked to my father in years. Why? Patriarchies. As far as my dad was concerned, his job was finished when I turned 18. He’d done his duty. He’d had two children, a boy and a girl. He’d provided for them until they were adults but he had no emotional attachment to those kids.
As far as my mother was concerned, she’d grown attached to my brother and I. As a result, she still makes a point of talking to us every single day. Those phone calls are the highlight of my day and I always feel like I could tell my mother anything.
I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t even know my middle name.
I have my dad’s last name. My mom did all the work, but in the history books, my dad will get all the credit. That’s why when my son was born, I gave him my last name. Strike a point for feminism on that one, woman can carry on the family name.
My fucked up family history aside, there is another reason that I think patriarchies need to be done away with and it is much more clinical. Population control.
Back in the middle ages, women would get married as soon as they had their first periods and start having babies right away. This was due to the infant mortality rate. Very few children ever saw adulthood, so the woman would have as many as possible to ensure they would have at least one heir. A woman might have 10 babies in her fertile years, but only see one survive to reach the age of 20.
As time went on, and medicine improved, women having babies so young became socially unacceptable. They started waiting until they were 18 or 19. Infant mortality rates improved. New diseases, like polio or malaria, started cutting down people in their teens or 20’s, when it was too late for the mother to birth more children. These diseases also caused infertility in a large number of men. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.
Then, our scientists developed inoculations. In case you want to look it up, the baby boom happened after that. Children, millions of children, who would grow up to be millions of healthy adults, who would use up the worlds resources, came along.
And the universe decided that it must be balanced. Enter HIV.
In the 70’s and early 80’s, HIV came along, making people less likely to engage in promiscuous, unprotected sex. It was the first STD that was actually scary enough to stop people from screwing. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.
Look up the statistics on Generation X. We were the generation born after people became fully aware of AIDS and we are the smallest generation in existence.
Gen X reached adulthood, but they were having a good time. They were enjoying the Seattle music scene and working on their college educations. They put off having babies until they were older but they still managed to have them. Advances in AIDS prevention made them more comfortable with having unprotected sex and they started having babies in their late 20’s and early 30’s. Difficulty conceiving resulted in fertility treatments that made multiple child births far more likely. The population exploded again.
Generation Y popped up and they were as big as the baby boomer generation. Scientific advances allowed their children to be born healthy. Even a mother with AIDS could give birth to a child without AIDS. Immunizations kept them from dying from early childhood diseases and regular advances in medicine kept them from dying from preventable diseases that came along when they were capable of having children of their own.
But the universe must have its balance. Instead of knocking us all down with horrible diseases, the universe decided to be cool this time around.
Generation Y girls no longer focused on having babies and supporting a family like their mothers did. Instead, they developed ambitions that didn’t include home and family. They learned how to develop dreams outside of being someone’s baby machine. When the Gen Y girls do decide to have kids, they will do it because they want to, not because that is what is expected of them. Instead of having 4 or 5 children, they will have 1 or 2.
And the universe will have its balance.
Population control is a necessary evil of the universe. When the planet couldn’t stop us with famine or disease, it found another way. It stopped us with reason and ambition. Men always had ambition, in an attempt to support their families. But now women have ambition too. They have dreams outside of being a mother. They focus on their careers and put their plans for families on hold.
And the universe gets its balance back.
The universe will always have its balance. It will never allow us to birth more people than its resources can support. When it couldn’t cut us all down with disease, it reasoned with us. It asked us to start seriously considering the decision to have children, rather than popping them out because that was what was expected of us.
Personally, I want to get along with the universe and I want to play by its rules. I don’t want to see half the world’s population die based on a virus the universe made up to keep our numbers down. Instead, I want to see people use reason to keep those numbers down.
Patriarchies are dead for that reason. They did not focus on individual satisfaction. They focused on a person’s ability to breed out a family. Unfortunately that caused way too many people to be born. The death of the patriarchy gave women their power back. They started deciding what to do with their bodies and they started deciding to not be baby makers just because tradition told them to.
So people out there, focus on your own satisfaction. Do not focus on how you’re biologically supposed to reproduce, because the universe doesn’t want you to do that. It’s giving us a chance here. It’s telling us “I will have my balance’ but it’s also giving us the opportunity to handle that population control ourselves. It’s never done that for us before; respect that.
Because one way or another, the universe will have its balance. If patriarchies had to die to keep it, instead of the majority of the world’s population, I’m totally cool with that.
The universe is watching and it is keeping count. Simply stated, think before you breed. Every last one of our lives may depend on it.
I’ve tried online dating in the past. I’ve never had any success and I blame that on the fact that I’m a writer…as well as a judgmental bitch. I am fully aware that there are many smart people out there who can’t write a coherent sentence to save their lives. At the same time, as soon as I read an incoherent sentence from a half assed email, I write a dude off entirely.
When the guy can write in full sentences, I head on over to their profile page to seek if it was a fluke. Whenever it’s not, and I read everything their looking for, I shut it down because I know that I’m nothing close to what they are looking for. Let me give you a few tidbits from some of the guy’s who have messaged me;
I’m looking for a girl who’s interested in getting into the outdoors a bit, camping, canoeing, rock climbing
I love anything outdoors, I call it my church.
I love the outdoors. … I don’t want a gym rat but you at least have to like hiking trail riding, some kind of outdoors activities
As an accomplished outdoors-man, I can literally survive in the wild with very few items
You should contact me if you love the outdoors
Yeah, because my idea of fun is traipsing through a Florida swamp in 105 degree weather, praying that the kinds of mosquitoes biting me aren’t the kind that carry malaria. With all these outdoorsy guys out there, I would assume that the Everglades are just plain filled with men living off the land, hiking, fishing, canoeing and participating in hand to hand combat with alligators.
They’re not, by the way. They’re filled with Ukrainian dudes in linen suits dumping bodies in the dead of the night.
I only know a very small group of people who are really into the outdoors. In fact, they’re so fucking outdoorsy, they spend all their time outdoors. They’re called homeless people and I pay rent every month to avoid being like them.
When I go to a man’s profile, and I see 11 paragraphs about how a guy is looking for a girl who loves the great outdoors, hiking, fishing, camping, etc., all I can think is “doesn’t sound to me like you’re looking for a girlfriend. Actually, it sounds to me like you’re looking for a lumberjack.”
I also love the fact that very few of these great outdoors lovers see any irony in the fact that they’re online dating. If they’re so damn outdoorsy, shouldn’t they be outside, living off the land and looking for their ideal mate squatting in a bush after she finishes off a hefty dinner of raw squirrel?
Half the time, I think these outdoorsy profiles are just a smoke screen to throw off gold diggers and high maintenance chicks. Regardless, I’m not answering because I believe in brutal honesty. And when a guy asks me if I enjoy camping, I’m forced to respond that sleeping outside on the ground is my idea of hell.
And I don’t really care if that makes me high maintenance. I guess I just wasn’t the lumberjack they were looking for.
My phone bleats out a few bars from ‘Sexual Healing’, and I check the display.
It’s a local call from the 407 area code so I answer it even though I don’t recognize the number. I take a chance on answering it, just in case it’s an emergency, like my dealer calling me to let me know he got his hands on some red, white and blue…the most patriotic of all marijuana strains.
“Hey Essa, it’s Nelson?”
“Who?” I’m lost. The only Nelson I can think of is the one on The Simpsons. I doubt it’s him calling me, on account of him being a cartoon and all.
“Nelson Lastnameredacted? Kristen’s friend?”
Still lost, even though I do know a Kristen. “I think you have the wrong number.”
“But this is Essa, right?”
“Fine, you have the wrong Essa.” I am quickly tiring of this conversation and am preparing to hang up the phone.
The mysterious Nelson is starting to sound a little annoyed. “I’m pretty sure I have the right one. How many Essa’s are there?”
It’s a decent question so I give it some thought. “Um, there’s me and there’s an Essa University in England. Maybe you’re thinking of that one.” My finger hovers over the disconnect button.
“I doubt that’s the case, considering I never dated an Essa University.”
Damn this fucker is persistent. I start to think back, my mind going through many blurry faces. “Sorry Nelson, you’re not ringing a bell.”
A frustrated sigh, followed by an uncomfortable throat clearing. “You sure? We did sleep together.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’ll narrow it down.” I run though many still blurry faces in my head, when suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Wait, you’re not calling to tell me you have Chlamydia or something, right?”
Nelson sputters, “What? No, I was calling you to ask if you want to go out on my boat this weekend.”
I screwed a dude with a boat? Nice. I give myself a mental high-five. “Depends, describe yourself.”
“You really don’t remember me?”
“What can I say, I’m incredibly promiscuous. Don’t act like you didn’t know, that’s probably half the reason you’re calling me.”
He says nothing, so I know I’m right.
“Still waiting on that description.”
“Um, yeah.” He clears his throat again and I realize I’m making him uncomfortable. I can’t say I care. I mean, apparently I slept with this dude and he never called me. Now he wants to pop back out of the woodwork and he has the balls to be annoyed with me for not remembering him? “I’m 5’9”, brown hair, brown eyes. Thin.”
“You’ve just described ever dude I’ve ever dated.” I decide to go Law and Order style. “Any distinguishing characteristics.”
“Moles, tattoos, birthmarks. Anything that I could use to pick you out in a line up?”
“Oh,” he pauses, “I have a tattoo. It’s an American flag.”
“On my lower back.”
“Fuck,” I blurt out, “tell me I didn’t know about that when I slept with you!” I mentally take back the high five I just gave to myself. ‘Dude with tramp stamp’ immediately cancels out ‘dude with boat’. Any girl knows that.
“No, but you did make fun of it for most of the next day.” He’s sounding annoyed again and I decide to shut it down.
“As well I should have.” I sigh, “Listen, chances are, if I’m having this much of a hard time remembering you, we didn’t click or you were terrible in bed. Either way, it’s been at least 6 months since I last had sex. That tells me that you waited a minimum of 6 months to call me. My guess would be much, much longer, because if I screwed a dude with a tattoo on his lower back six months ago, I would still be making fun of him today.”
“Wow,” Nelson sounds less annoyed and instead a little chagrined by my outburst. “Listen, I meant to call. I’ve been busy…”
The fact that he’s giving me some half-assed apology like I’m a pathetic clingy ex sets me off. “Yeah, I know what its like to be busy. I plan to be very busy for the foreseeable future, including this weekend.”
“Busy doing what?” He is annoyed again. Jesus, this guy is moody.
“Sinking a boat down at the marina.”
I hang up the phone, shaking my head and wondering what’s wrong with some guys. My phone rings again and I let it go to voicemail.
In April of 2001, I tried to kill myself.
Did you just shit yourself over that sentence? I know it shocked you, because I wrote it and deleted it 5 times before I just decided to roll with it.
To be entirely honest, I’ve written and deleted this post about 500 times over the past year. But today, on my blogs one year anniversary, I have finally decided I can do it. I can find a way to make my first and only suicide attempt funny.
I was 20. It doesn’t entirely surprise me that this incident occurred several months before my 21st birthday. If I’d had alcohol available to me, I probably would have just gone on a ‘coping mechanism’ bender and moved on.
But I didn’t, so I decided to kill myself instead.
My early twenties weren’t an easy time for me. During this particular period, I was seeing a real shit head of a man. For continuity purposes, we’ll call him Shithead. I also might have been clinically depressed. I wouldn’t know because I was never diagnosed. All I remember was waking up one day and realizing that everything was terrible, nothing was going to get better, the world was going to shit and it was pointless to try to fix it because I was going to die anyway. So I decided, after a few weeks of feeling that way, to speed up the process by offing myself.
Of course, I had to consider a method and I was ridiculously practical about it. My first idea was to slit my wrists. I, like any other girl who’s seen “The Craft”, knew how to do it right.
Seriously, what the fuck were the producers of that movie thinking, giving a bunch of angst filled teenage girls that kind of information? It’s amazing that any girl made it out of my generation alive.
Anyway, the thing that stopped me from using the razor was the rug. I was living in military barracks at the time and was fully convinced that if I got blood on the rug during my suicide, my barracks captain would send my parents a bill for the damage. It just seemed wrong to make my parents suffer from both my death, and from my failure to maintain a tidy living quarters as well. So the razor was out.
I also considered hanging. You know what stopped me from that? George Carlin. He had a stand up routine about suicide and one of the things he mentioned was that hanging was for weirdoes. I didn’t want people to think I was weird. So that was out.
I finally decided on pills. However, I didn’t really have a lot of pill options available to me. Like I said, I was in the military at the time. If you can believe it, military doctors can be kind of stingy when it comes to handing out anything stronger than a Tylenol.
So I went to Google instead. After extensive research, I decided that there was only one over the counter medication that could get the job done. Niacin. I’d known the dangers of Niacin overdose before and I knew for a fact they included death.
See, Niacin is rumored to remove THC from your system so you can pass a drug test. FYI anyone looking for info on passing a drug test with Niacin; it doesn’t do a fucking thing (but stay tuned for a future blog where I teach you how to really pass a drug test). At the time, I was always looking for ways around drug tests so I knew that about Niacin. I also knew that in certain doses, Niacin could be lethal.
But I was about to learn a hell of a lot more.
I decided to say fuck convention and commit suicide on a Friday afternoon after work. I had a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of Niacin tablets. I took both while I listened to the song “Riding with the King’ by Eric Clapton and BB King.
If I was going out, I was doing it while listening to a decent song. There would be no ‘N Sync or Christina Aguilera singing the soundtrack to my death. I wanted the kind of soul only a true musician could provide. So I went with Clapton and King. For that, I regret nothing.
I remember counting the pills as I took them. It was a process. One red tablet, one little sip from a black label bottle.
If I was going out, I was going out drinking black label. King and Clapton should always be paired with black label. Always.
Around tablet 25, I started to get dizzy. For reasons I will never fully understand, I decided to lock myself in my closet while I waited for the pills to do their work. I lay down on that incredibly uncomfortable, nappy blue rug. It was the very rug I was previously so worried about damaging. I waited.
Then the pain started.
I wasn’t expecting pain. I was expecting to fall asleep and never wake up. Unfortunately, there are certain things that Google didn’t tell me about Niacin overdose. Like the burning. It felt like every single fucking sunburn I’d ever had, times four hundred, and it lasted for hours. I was shaking and burning and itching. But I was afraid to scratch my skin. I was certain if I scratched myself, the skin would just melt off in my hand in a pile of fleshy goo and blood.
Then I would stain the rug.
So I laid there and I clenched my teeth to keep from vomiting. I shook and I sweated. My temperature was approximately 400 thousand degrees and I was certain that Niacin was going to kill me by burning me from the outside in.
And while I was burning, my only thought was that I was going to die without ever seeing a volcano up close. Ever since I saw “Joe Versus the Volcano”, I’d always wanted to see the inside of a volcano from the top of one. But as I laid there burning on that nappy blue rug, I realized that I was never going to do that.
I got really mad at Tom Hanks. Then, I got mad at myself for not being brave like Tom Hanks and finding a more honorable way to die. (See Joe Versus the Volcano on IMDB if you have no idea what I’m talking about). After that, I think I had a seizure and passed out. When I woke up again, I wasn’t burning anymore.
Instead, I was blind.
At first, I thought it was just because I was locked in the closet and there were no lights. I fumbled and I found my lighter in my back pocket. I flicked it a few times before I realized that if I was really blind, I would have no way of knowing if it was working. I pushed myself up to a halfway squat and reached around for the string that attached to my light. After what felt like hours, I finally found it and I pulled the cord.
You ever have the light on but have your eyes closed? All you can see is that reddish color, light trying to pass through the black, but not quite making it? That’s what I saw, but my eyes were open. Then, another thought occurred to me as I squatted there with my wrist wrapped around the cord. I thought about how much easier my life would be if I wasn’t so obsessed with aesthetics. If I was blind, I could listen to the man I was dating, rather than be distracted by his looks. If I was blind, I could listen to things for what they were, rather than see them for what I wanted them to be.
Right before I passed out again, it occurred to me that’s what I should have been doing all along.
When I woke up again, sunlight was peeking under the crack in my door and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My closet smelled like vomit and even the shine on my shoes made me a little dizzy and nauseas. But the nausea and the vomit didn’t bother me because they meant I was alive. I wanted to be alive again.
It was the hardest thing I ever did, but I reached up, I pulled open the closet door and I stumbled out. It was 2:30 in the afternoon on Sunday, nearly 48 hours after I’d locked myself in. I heard a knock on my door.
My roommate was going to drop off her dry cleaning and she wanted to know if I had anything I wanted her to drop off for me. For some reason, that offer was the most beautiful, selfless offer in the world to me. It bumped my faith in humanity up a little bit, which was exactly what I needed.
I gave her a garbage bag full of vomit covered battle dress uniforms. She smiled and asked if I wanted to go to lunch with her and her boyfriend that afternoon. I said yes, even though I knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. I knew it was time to start living again.
Until today, no one ever knew what I tried to do to myself that weekend. My Niacin soaked suicide attempt was something that I’ve kept concealed. It was something that I was planning on taking to the grave. I was ashamed of it.
But I learned something in that closet that weekend. I learned that I wanted to live. I learned that there were still things left I needed to do. I learned that I was responsible for my own happiness.
That Monday, I ditched Mr. Shithead via text message. He deserved no better.
That Wednesday, I picked my roommate and I’s dry-cleaning and I gladly covered the tab without asking her for reimbursement. .
That Friday, I received another bill for $60 from my barracks captain for rug cleaning. To be fair, there was a significant amount of vomit.
And that spring, I saw a volcano up close. I checked it off and I added a new goal to the list. FYI: it was just as cool as it sounded.
I don’t regret what I did, because I lived through it. I was lucky that weekend. I made it through to the other side and I realized that life isn’t about the end. It’s about what you do while you’re waiting for the end. This realm is the boot camp. You struggle, you strive. You learn sometimes that you suck at things. You learn sometimes that you need to adapt and accept the way things are. You learn sometimes that the dreams you thought you wanted weren’t the dreams that were meant for you.
That weekend, while I laid on that nappy blue rug, I realized something. Maybe I would never get married. Maybe I would never fall in love. Maybe, I would never meet that Harlequin based man of my dreams.
But maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t all there was to life.
Maybe my life was just about living. Not living for someone else. Not waiting for some man to accept me or love me. Nope, it was just about living and I would need to learn to accept that. Because life wasn’t about me becoming part of a couple, as much as I thought it should have been. It was about me living. It was about me doing stupid things. It was about me adapting to the world around me.
It was about getting into a slap fight with a Native American during Burning Man because we argued about kite proportions.
It was about dancing on top of a float dedicated to the history of dildos during the love parade in Berlin.
It was popping a champagne cork in Times Square.
It was confetti raining down on me outside the Eiffel Tower on New Years, when I elbowed that dude in the chest because he wouldn’t stop pushing me.
It was dressing up in drag in Turkey and pretending to be a boy, just to see if I could get away with it.
It was playing spades with the people I met in quarantine just outside of Eddigan and losing every damn time.
It was life and it was beautiful.
It was beautiful in the way that sunlight peaked under that door on an ordinary Sunday morning. It was beautiful in the way my roommate was beautiful when she asked if I needed her to drop off my dry cleaning. It was just plain beautiful and there was no way I was walking away from that.
Since the day I tried to die, ever second of my life has been precious to me. From the mundane to the extraordinary, I have never turned off my internal camera. The memories are what matter.
I didn’t mean for my one year anniversary post to be so heavy, but in a way, its not. Because it’s not about if you were important. It’s not about whether anyone ever loved you. When you go to the grave, you go the alone and the only thing that you have to comfort you is your memories.
Tonight, I end you off with a quote that’s not mine, but feels like it should be mine, because it truly has made all the difference.
|I shall be telling this with a sigh|
|Somewhere ages and ages hence:|
|Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—|
|I took the one less traveled by,|
|And that has made all the difference.|
I know poetry isn’t usually my bag, but on this one year anniversary, I decided to be different. I saw the volcano and for a second, I reached my hand inside. That’s all I need to go happy. Thank you, Mr. Frost. Thank you, world, Thank you, life. Thank you for making me too inept and too bumbly to pull off a suicide.
Because that made all the difference. Happy Anniversary, my follower friends. I promise to be around for many, many more.
But I can’t guarantee I’ll pay for any damage I do to the rug.