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.
I spend way to much time psychoanalyzing men I don’t know.
In order to get where I’m going, you need to understand a little bit about who I am in relation to my friends. If my life was a romantic comedy, I would be the wacky, moderately slutty, best friend. The one who never has a boyfriend and it always there for long, in depth conversations about the leading man with the leading leady.
Being the wacky best friend has benefits and drawbacks. As the wacky best friend, I rarely have problems of my own. Benefit.
Because I have very few problems, I often have to take on the roll of sympathetic ear listen to other peoples problems. Generally, it’s not a complete drawback. I do enjoy a good story. The keyword being ‘good’.
Unfortunately, many of my female friends think I need to know every single detail before they finally tell me what the root issue is. The whole time their talking, all I really want to do is scream “get to the point already!!!”
I am the exact opposite of this type of story teller.
One of my friends, Kay, says I tell stories like a man. In one sentence. I never give details. Instead, I hit the high points. Here’s a transcript of one of our deep conversations;
Kay: So you’re not talking to Jessica anymore?
Kay: Why not?
Essa: Because she’s a cunt
Kay: Really? Why’s that?
Essa: My guess would be genetics.
As far as I’m concerned, I’ve given a decent run down. Essa is no longer talking to Jessica because Jessica is a cunt, most likely because her mom is a cunt. But Kay doesn’t see it that way, Kay wants details.
It’s not that I don’t want to give details. It’s that I tell my story in inverted paragraph format, like journalists use.
That way, if Kay and I get into a car accident and die while we’re talking, at least she’ll die knowing that I think Jessica is a cunt.
Many of my friends tell stories the opposite way, giving tons of unnecessary details, making me forget what the hell they were talking about. Let me give you a run down of a telephone conversation I had last week.
It’s late Thursday evening. Essa is laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan and wondering why she is so dizzy. The phone rings. It’s Lisa.
Lisa: (Cuts Essa off immediately. Her voice is thick with tears) I’m fucking done with Mark. That guy is an asshole.
Essa: (reaches into a nightstand drawer and pulls out one of her special ‘organic’ emergency cigarettes. She takes one brief sharp inhale before responding.) What did he do?
Lisa: (sniffles) well, it all started in December at his sister’s birthday party…
Essa: (as Lisa’s voice drones on, Essa starts to feel a little buzzed. She realizes she hasn’t been paying attention. She tunes back in…)
Lisa: …and I told him there was no way we’re keeping chickens in the apartment….
Essa: (wants chicken for reasons she doesn’t understand. Realizes that Lisa has paused and she is expected to respond.) Um, commitment issues?
Lisa: Exactly! Anyway, this past weekend…
Essa: (Lisa’s words are slowly lulling Essa to sleep. She is just about to doze off. The phone slips away from her ear)
Lisa: …so after he invited his college roommate to join us for a threesome, I lost it. I killed him and dismembered him in the bathroom.
Essa: (eyes pop back open immediately and she is no longer sleepy) You didn’t think to lead off with that?
I have no problem listening to my friend’s problems, but I will admit, I think like a man. I’m thinking of solutions. When someone calls me to say they killed someone, I don’t go into sympathy mode. I go into ‘get rid of the body and think of an alibi’ mode.
I look for solutions. That’s why I like to know what the problem is up front. So I know whether I’m going to say ‘dump him’ or ‘get over it’.
Anyway, I really think that the inverted pyramid could really help us all be a bit more decisive. Give me the basic issue first, and then expand on the details as needed.
Ladies out there, I have no problem listening to your problems. Honestly, I fucking live for drama. But if you’re going to tell a story, you’re going to need to hook your listener. Otherwise, know that I’m dozing off on the other end of the line, repeating generic phrases I heard on Dr. Phil
Being a girl from the backwoods of the White Mountains, many of my relatives like to kill animals for fun on weekends. Some even do it with guns.
Of all these hunting enthusiasts, none have been so successful as my cousin Gus. This strikes me as quite odd, because he’s actually a terrible hunter. He makes no plans or preparations whatsoever. He never cleans his gun. He gets annihilated drunk before he goes. He has shaky hands and poor vision. He is the Gomer Pyle of hunting…the Keystone Cops…the Abbot and the Costello.
But he never comes home empty handed.
So it occurred to me, there has to be a system in there somewhere. Despite the fact that he is completely inept, he is always successful.
If he can be inept hunter and still murder a veritable cornucopia of cute, fuzzy forest creatures, then maybe his tips really are valuable. Maybe they can be applied to a different kind of hunt all together.
The hunt for a mate.
So I have taken my cousin Gus’ hunting strategy and I have adjusted this strategy to fit almost any club scene out there. Gus’ strategy will guarantee you never go home alone again.
As long as you aren’t too picky.
Step #1 – Get wasted. I mean, really, really messed up. Don’t limit yourself to alcohol either. Smoke a joint or two. Drop a hit of acid. As Gus would say, “why hunt a deer when you can hunt a fire breathing octopus with wings?” The more messed up you are, the better other people look. That’s just common sense.
In addition, being on a large amount of alcohol, or other illicit substances, will lower your inhibitions, making you far more likely to make the first move. Chicks dig a guy who makes the first move.
Step #2 – Hunt wounded prey on a closed range. A closed range is a field that had fences, so the animals can only run so far. Embrace this. Start attending more parties on boats. That way, the prey you stalk will never be able to completely escape. Unless they’re a really strong swimmer.
As far as wounded prey, this is easy. Find the drunkest chick in the bar (or on the boat). Bonus points if she’s been crying. A drunk girl who cries in public generally has low self esteem and is much easier to pick up. You’ll be mounting her above your headboard in no time!
Step #3 – Shoot at everything that fucking moves! A deer?…BANG…A squirrel?…BANG…A Grasshopper?…BANG…A stiff breeze?…BANG. As Gus would put it, “if you use 3000 rounds of ammo in a 30 minute period, you will hit something…Also, I was with you all day yesterday and I know nothing about a bunch of dead hunters.”
In short, hit on every girl in the bar until you get one that seems receptive. Don’t be afraid to approach a herd of girls and hit on all of them at the exact same time. Focus on quantity, not quality.
Step #4 – Never be afraid to make a big impression. As Gus would say, “Anyone who says ‘don’t fish with dynamite’ has never seen the awesomeness of 30 trout exploding at one time.”
Get allot of attention by starting discussions about politics or religion. This will give you the opportunity to show how smart and well-spoken you are. So you aren’t smart or well spoken? Who give a fuck? Make up facts and yell your opinion loudly. Much like fishing with dynamite, you might piss off 29 of the girls, but chances are there is one who will like you because you remind her of her overbearing, slightly racist dad. Daddy issues are your friend.
As far as I can tell, Gus’ approach really stands a chance of working, as long as you don’t care what you get. Sure, more often than not, Gus brought home something completely inedible, like a seagull or a skunk. During one particularly heavy bender, he even brought home a traffic cone with four bullet holes in it. But the point was he always got something.
If that’s all you care about, chances are, you’re Gus’ kind of guy. Warning; you might want to avoid going hunting with him. He tends to accidentally shoot the people he goes hunting with.
If you’ve just come to this page to complain about my use of the word ‘retard’ suck it. Retard was actually a medically viable term related to poor brain development before it fell out of favor for being used as a slur. The men I’m talking about clearly have retarded mental development, so ‘retard’ is a medically accurate term.
Every few years, I see these idiot sites pop up. They are designed to tell men how to pick up women using ‘proven’ manipulation methods and genius ideas. They also usually tell how to dump the same women with no backlash whatsoever (I’m assuming this course is offered during the same semester as Unicorn Catching 101). They recycle the same ideas over and over again, putting them in different packages, hoping that desperate dudes will spend their hard earned money one their videos or books. FYI Guys who choose to spend your money on this crap: the only people about to get manipulated are you…by some smooth talking snake oil salesmen.
The tips are usually some bullshit scientific proof that men can manipulate women using one of more of the following methods;
- Give her a backhanded compliment (i.e. You have really pretty eyes. Have you noticed that your left eye is bigger than your right?)
- Talk to her friends instead.
- Be aloof. Never answer her calls right away or at all.
- Never officially break up with a girl. Instead, ‘backburner’ her by saying you’re going on a long vacation or being a dick so she’ll be forced to break up with you. That way, you can call her in the future and get booty calls.
Men, these methods will not help you pick up women. They will help you pick up a psycho with daddy issues. You could have accomplished the same thing, in half the time, buy buying the chick four shots of vodka. You are not a master manipulator. You’re preying on a not too bright chick with low self esteem.
Then, after manipulating their broken prey, they guys will justify their actions by bring up something about how women have been manipulating men for centuries, conveniently forgetting that until about 100 years ago, we were pretty much property. They do it to justify their douchebaggery.
“Hey they manipulated us first.”
Guys, I have to tell you, no, we haven’t been manipulating you. We’ve been making reasonable requests. Asking a man to shower regularly so his stink doesn’t turn your stomach isn’t manipulation, it’s basic hygiene. Asking a man to pick his socks up off the floor isn’t manipulation, it’s basic cleanliness that your mother should have taught you. Not wanting to have sex doesn’t mean we’re withholding sex to get something. It’s harder for women to orgasm than men. If we’re pissed off or unhappy, it makes an orgasm impossible and sometimes, it even makes sex uncomfortable. Maybe you want to consider working on the problem instead of trying to get our pants off? Just a suggestion.
You want to keep your girl? How about you clean yourself up and you don’t treat her like your maid. If you just want to run around sticking your dick into everything that doesn’t have leprosy, here’s the solution and you didn’t have to spend 9.95 on some retarded video to get it. Prostitution is perfectly legal in Nevada and the pros there don’t care if you never shower or refuse to pick your socks up.
Ladies, you need to be honest as well. Don’t tell a guy you’re into casual hook ups if you’re not really into casual hook ups. It’s perfectly OK to NOT be into casual hook ups and it’s perfectly ok to admit that. If some dude is going to shut you down when you tell him that, then he wasn’t the right guy for you anyway. If you want a serious relationship, be UP FRONT about it. Be honest. While there might be the occasional douchebag out there who will use that info against you, those guys are actually few and far between. Most of the guys I know are decent dudes who respond well to honesty.
Because honesty is the solution. It’s not about whose winning or whose losing. You shouldn’t been competing with your mate and sex should never be a competition unless the competition is ‘who can have the most orgasms’.
In case you’re wondering, I’m not some radical feminist. I believe in equality, not an unfair advantage. I believe in reasonable requests. By reasonable, I mean equal pay for equal work, not spending $20,000 to make contracts gender neutral or demanding female admission into “the men’s cockfighting and bitching about women” club. I believe in women in combat. I believe we should be allowed to do any job we are qualified for. I do not believe the rules should be bent for me just because I have a vagina.
I didn’t have a choice what gender I was born it, but I wouldn’t change it. I enjoy being a girl. But when I’m making decisions, I’m making them as a person. I’m not some random vagina to be manipulated with pick up lines or stupid bullshit you learned from a video. If you really want to get to know me, then get to fucking know me.
If you don’t want to get to know me, then Nevada is about 40 hours west. Tell Ginger I said hi.
***WARNING TO FAMILY AND FRIENDS, THIS POST CONTAINS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT INFORMATION ABOUT ME THAT YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD NEVER KNOWN SHOULD YOU CONTINUE TO READ. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.***
“Why are you still single?”
I’ve gotten this question at least once a week since my tits came in.
If you’ve ever asked it before, don’t feel bad. I truly believe there is some deep down, biological urge for most people to ask a reasonably attractive, relatively intelligent woman why she is not paired up and producing more reasonably attractive, relatively intelligent babies. Let’s face it, the world is only getting stupider and we need all the intelligent people we can get.
However, in response to this question, I am going to borrow a quote from one of my characters who got the same question.
“I have a shitty personality and I’m not much to look at. Can we move on?” ~ Angelica Salvatori of Strangely Sober
When someone asks me ‘why are you still single’ I feel like they’re really asking me ‘what’s wrong with you?’ My answer? So many things…
Truth be told, the reason I’m still single is because I have yet to meet an attractive man that I could have a conversation with that did not make me want to shove a screwdriver in my ear. When I do meet a man who can banter, he is either not remotely attractive to me, or he is lousy in bed.
Let me break down the timeline of an Essa relationship for you.
Step 1 – The Attraction
I know I’ll probably get some people saying “honestly, I didn’t feel attracted to my husband/boyfriend at first but now, he’s my soul mate.” My answer? No he’s not. He’s the dude you settled for and the only reason you’re with him is because he was the best guy you thought you could get at the time. I am going to put money on the fact that you will be cheating on him within the next two years.
Ask any long term married couple, sexual attraction doesn’t grow; it declines. In the beginning, you’re attracted to a person, but over the years, as you get used to them, no matter how attractive they are, that pretty face means less. What you do develop is a level of comfort and contentment, not sexual attraction. I get comfort and contentment from chocolate and the movie ‘Serenity’. I don’t need it from my mate.
I dated a guy I wasn’t attracted to in the past. As funny and charming as he was, the second he put his hands on me or went in for a kiss, I felt a cold dread grow in my stomach. I eventually broke up with him in a horrible way and made him miserable. He wrote angst filled country songs that he slipped under my door for months. It was not a good time and I will never again date a guy I am not attracted to.
Step 2 – The Banter
Conversation is the most important thing in the world to me. I actually have a low attraction threshold, demanding that any guy I talk to be a minimum of a 6 (my own level of attractiveness). It’s not hard to be a six. Just wear nice clothes and go to the gym occasionally.
For conversation, you must be able to hold your end. There is nothing more exhausting than talking to someone who is not giving anything back. After a while, I just assume they are not interested and walk away. If I use a big word and you give me a blank look, I’m walking. If I mention an Eddie Murphy movie from the 80’s and you’ve never heard of it, I’m walking. Seriously, I have nothing to say to a person who can’t appreciate the comedic genius that is “Coming to America” or “Trading Places.”
Step 3 – The Sex Test
This is where the majority of contenders fail. Essa Alroc breaks a cardinal rule when it comes to dating. She sleeps with guys before she is in a relationship with them. Why?
Why the hell not? Why would I want to waste a bunch of time developing a relationship with someone, only later to learn that they are lousy in bed? I am 32 years old and I date guys in my age range. If they are lousy in bed by the time they reach this age range, then they require a level of instruction that I don’t feel like giving.
All the relationship experts out there say ‘wait until the third date’ or ‘wait until you’re in a monogamous relationship’. Here the thing ladies; if a guy is REALLY interested in you, then it’s not going to matter if you fuck him on date 1, or if you fuck him on date 37. He’ll stick around. If he’s only in it for sex, then he’ll walk away as soon as he gets in your pants, regardless of when he gets into them. I’d much prefer they walk away before I develop an attachment if that’s the case.
Most guys fail the sex test, but I can’t really blame them. Actually, I blame the women that were there before me. Ladies, another request? Please STOP FAKING ORGASMS! You are giving men positive reinforcement for doing something WRONG, which will train them to continue doing things WRONG.
Faked orgasms are the reason that guys continue to try the jackhammer or rectal fingering. It doesn’t feel good and I don’t like it, but some stupid bitch before me gave the idiot the idea that it felt great because she released a screaming, howling fake orgasm when he did it with her. Fake orgasms do women everywhere a disservice and need to be discontinued immediately.
So, there you have it. The reason I’m still single. The men I meet either aren’t attractive to me, lack the ability to carry on a conversation, or are terrible in bed. There is only one way this reasoning can be summed up, and it comes in the most overused cliché possible, with a slight twist.
Men of America, it’s not me…it’s you.
I was driving this morning, listening to talk radio because I was chain smoking and couldn’t hit the ‘scan’ button. As I was listening, one of those radio psychologists came on and she started talking about feminism. Specifically, she started talking about the ‘feminist agenda’ and how women are ‘giving up their power’.
How are women giving up their power? Why, by being sexually liberated. According to the radio shrink, the reason women dress provocatively and have one night hook ups is because they are on a mistaken quest to ‘assert their sexual power’.
At that point, I had to pull over so I could vomit.
I am sick of every personal decision I make in my life being turning into some kind of male/female power struggle. Can’t be a stay-at-home mom, because I’m giving up my independence. Can’t go to work because I’m being a bad mother. I can’t be promiscuous, because apparently, that means I have low self esteem. But if I never get laid, I’m not embracing my sexuality.
Hey radio shrink, you know what takes away a woman’s power? Letting a radio shrink, with an Associate’s Degree from Bill and Tony’s Upstairs Hollywood College, tell them who to be.
The only decision I make in my life, based on the fact that I have a vagina, is what type of tampons to buy. Every other decision I make, I’m making as a person. Not a woman. Not an ‘empowered lady embracing her femininity’. Nope, just as a person who has to make choices.
And I’m not going to apologize to anyone for them, least of all someone who accuses me of having an ‘agenda’.
When I go to a bar, and I decided to pick up an anonymous dude, so I can attempt to knock him unconscious with my headboard, I’m not doing it because I have low self esteem. I’m not doing it to feel empowered. I’m doing it because I want to get laid, but my life is too fucking complicated for a boyfriend.
I don’t have daddy issues. I’m not part of ‘the hook up culture’. I’m a busy motherfucker. I work 18 hours a day. I have a kid to take care of. I’m writing three new novels simultaneously. I don’t have the time or the attention to dedicate to a man. But that doesn’t mean I should never get laid again…and I don’t want to do it on battery power.
Here’s the deal. Women have been having random hookups for centuries. From the ancient bathhouses in Rome, to the peasant girls in Victorian England, right up to the 60’s and the ‘sexual liberation’. The only reason hook ups get so much attention now is because we actually talk about them.
Women need to stop trashing other women for the sake of psychology and the ‘feminist agenda’. If some 19 year old girl wants to flash her tits at a ‘Girls Gone Wild’ camera, who the hell are you to tell her she can’t? Her actions reflect on her and not her gender as a whole.
Until we stop drawing gender lines, and acting like there is a different set of requirements for women that there is for men, there is always going to be a war between the sexes. Why? Because we created a war between the sexes.
As far as I’m concerned, for this war, you can consider me Switzerland…neutral and uninterested. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a naked unconscious man I need to drag out to the curb.
Every year, come Spring, all my friends start online dating. They take their prettiest pictures, set up their accounts and hit the internet to find love. They always seem to have better luck than me. I think its because they’re older and they don’t have as many 25 year old idiots sending them messages. Twenty-five year olds seem to think that a message includes a one word text and a picture of them taking a picture of themselves in their bathroom mirrors. So, it’s probably the age range my friends are looking in that makes them so lucky.
That, and they’re also not bitches like me.
Online dating can be kind of difficult for a judgmental bitch like myself because when some idiot sends me a generic spam message, I respond in the following manner
When that same spammer gets pissed because I called him on it and starts with the standard “your not that hot/sour grapes bullshit”, I respond like this.
So meanwhile, when my friends are saying things like “oh, yeah, I’m going out this weekend with that doctor I met online,” I say, “I’m going to stay home and wish cancer on every guy who even attempts to contact me.”
If you can believe it, the guy that I wrote that email to asked me out less than five minutes later. Guess some dudes like getting slapped around. I said no. I love slapping dudes around, but I prefer it when they can slap back. Otherwise there’s no challenge.
Anyway, I lasted a whopping two weeks this year. I think I’m going to go back to the way I usually handle meeting new people…by handing my business card out in bulk at bars.
Every spring, I have a tradition. I reopen my Plenty of Fish account. I know my own personal spring festival is in full swing as soon as my inbox fills up with penises. It usually takes about 15 minutes.
One thing I love to do on the site is go to the forums and listen to all the dudes bitch about how girls never message them back. They love to talk about how they’re ‘a nice average guy’ but girls won’t talk to them because they all have ridiculous standards.
You’re right men. We all have impossible standards of wanting a decent looking guy, who is non-psychotic and has a checking account. What a bunch of snobby bitches we are!
Personally, I’m the kind of person who believes that you should have your shit relatively in order before you invite someone else into your life. Am I saying that you need to be a millionaire with a Mercedes? Nope. But you should have viable employment and not be living in your mom’s basement.
Simply stated, if your life is a train wreck, stop expecting chicks to want to jump on board. If I was on welfare, with six kids, living in subsidized housing, would you be so quick to message me? I didn’t think so. Stop contacting supermodels when you’re far from one yourself and getting pissed off that no one responds. I said it before and I’ll say it again; you are not going to be successful if you try to hook up with someone much more attractive than you. Stick to 1 to 2 levels above your own attractiveness.
As for the idiots that complain that they always have to make the first move, how do I put this politely? Welcome to the shit end of the stick. For centuries, women have been taught that approaching a man first is forward. By being the hunter in the relationship, a woman was taught she’d come off as masculine or even worse, easy. For a woman, being easy is just about the worst thing in the world. Easy women are dirty sluts. Easy men are fucking studs. Until I can fuck as many people as I want and be viewed as the pimp that I am, instead of a slut, you’re going to need to get over your fear of saying ‘hi’ first.
Also, as soon as you indicate that you’re afraid of making the first move; my vagina actually seals itself shut. It’s such a fucking pussy thing to be afraid of. You want to be treated like a man, act like one and not a 14 year old boy. I don’t fuck 14 year old boys. I’m a pretty blonde in my 30’s. Statistics indicate that the only way that I would be interested in 14 year old boys is if I was teaching one of their high school classes. So until I’m quoting you Chaucer as I slip my hand in your school uniform pocket, I’m going to need you all to man up.
Am I saying the girls are angels? No, but we do seem to take it a bit more seriously. We pick out good pictures. We think about what we’re writing in our profiles (mine is a two paragraph request to not be serial killed). We don’t put up an anonymous picture-less account, with the user name AssFister69, and one line of text that says ‘I hate filling these things out. If you want to know anything, message me.”
No joke, that profile exists way more than it should.
It’s a matter of statistics. The fact is, men outnumber women when it comes to online dating. They can’t put as little effort forward as they do in real life and get away with it. There is a reason that doesn’t work. Instead of bitching in the forums, most of these guys would be better served working on their profiles or closing their account until they become a person that a woman would want to be with.