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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Now back the fuck off.


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

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

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

Or You Could Try Not Being a Dick

Check out the below eye roll inducing video.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong Response

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

Right Response

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

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

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

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

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

Presenting National Day Drunk Day!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mystery Bruise

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

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

…it’s not nice to pick on retards.

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

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

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

Because the major ones always have a story.

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

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

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

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

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

Then my friend Mike called.

“How’s your foot?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Essa Buys a New Phone

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

Dear valued customer;

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

zach morris giant cellphone

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

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

Replace your phone, you dated bitch.

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

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

Do you people realize how much weed that could buy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok, so what are you looking for?”

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

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

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

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


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

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

Ridiculous Selfie 001

The Ghost In The House

Take a look through my archives and note how many of my posts talk about how heavily I drink. If you will, you might start to assume that I’m an alcoholic. I’m not. Not even remotely, but the symptoms are all there.

After all, 15% of the population now self-identifies as alcoholics. Might as well be trendy and hip, especially if your doctor is willing to tell you need to be part of a 12-step program.

Here are some questions on the standard alcoholic quiz.

  1. Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?
  2. Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking– stop telling you what to do?
  3. Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?
  4. Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble

Did you answer two of those as yes? Congrats. Welcome to the hip and trendy world of alcoholism, where you can talk about yourself and your “addiction” all day in order to get some of that attention you so desperately crave. Hell, maybe you can meet a hot dude in your AA meeting…and then hook up for drinks afterward. Because that’s all it is. It’s a club filled with platitudes and it means nothing.

Unless you actually meet an alcoholic.

We had a ghost when I was a kid. It wandered the halls of our house at night, bumping, and swearing and banging into things. All of the bottles of mouthwash in our house were empty. The ghost did it at night. There would be random holes in the walls and I’d wake up and my mom was crying. The ghost put the holes in the walls and the ghost made my mother cry.

I hated that ghost, but I was only five years old. Who the hell was I to stand up against a ghost?

The years went on. The ghost did things he didn’t remember. Sometimes, the ghost was happy. It would make us French toast in the morning or sausages and French fries at night. But no matter how temporarily nice that ghost might be, I was always afraid of it. Always.

Sometimes, I would wander down into the garage. When I was feeling particularly brave, I’d take a peek at the ghost. He didn’t look like a ghost. He was just a handsome, green-eyed man, drinking an 18 pack of cheap beer while he stared at the wall.

But he still scared the shit out of me. His eyes were so empty and it was clear he’d stopped caring about anything a long time before I got there. He was going through the motions of life.

The end of our ghost came on a night in early spring. I can’t remember the date. I just remember the ghost came raging. The ghost came screaming. He was angry, looking to pick a fight, and my tough as nails mother finally had enough. I remember her picking me up, carrying me out of the house while the neighbors looked on, telling the ghost “If you want them, you’ll have to go through me”.

We went away for a bit. We left the ghost in our old house all alone. I guess that made the ghost rethink his life choices, because the ghost went to rehab.

When I went to rehab to visit him, he wasn’t a ghost anymore. He was my father again. He was a quiet, serious man, who could still throw out a snappy one-liner and could help you with just about any math problem. He could do the mortgage interest in his head and rewire a house in 15 minutes. He’d watch stupid movies with me late at night, crack one-liners as we watched them, and laugh at mine.

But what he’d done to himself, to his family and to my mother, had damaged him. He would never be who he was again. As much as I loved him, I knew he’d never really be my dad anymore.   My mom knew he’d never be the boy she met.

It was a bit like meeting someone after they woke up from a coma. The world has changed, but you’re pretty sure they haven’t. But you have, and all you can do is try to make them fit into your life again.

It doesn’t always work.

My dad was a real alcoholic. He’s not one of your trendy, new age ones doing this for attention. For the first eight years of my life, my father was a ghost. He barely existed, but for the alcohol fueling him. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t my dad.

He was just the scary ghost that lived in my house.  He lost his family over it. My dad spent most of the important years in my life being drunk, then he spent the rest recovering from being drunk. He never got the chance to know me.

That’s a damn shame, because I think he really would have liked me.

That’s what real alcoholism is. It’a disease that takes away your body and turns you into someone else. The booze takes over and you become a ghost of your former self. You do things you regret, because you don’t think you’re really there. To an alcoholic, life is an abstract concept and the feelings of others don’t matter.

It changes you.

It’s not a trend. It’s not something you sign in on because all your friends are doing it or you had one regretful night at spring break. There are no numbers that show you’re an alcoholic. There is no appropriate number of drinks.

There’s only this. Has drinking changed you? Has it turned you into someone you don’t want to be? Do you not even remember who you used to be anymore? Has it gotten to the point where your kids won’t care when you die?

Then, you have a problem. It’s not about how many boxes you check off in some predefined test. It’s not about the number of drinks you have in a day.

It’s about your life and how you feel about it. If you’re showing up to be trendy, to talk about your new drinking problem like it’s an episode of the Kardashian’s, back the fuck away. Stop faking addiction in an effort to be interesting.

Because you’re not addicted to booze. You’re addicted to attention. I only wish there was an attention whores anonymous.

I’m not an alcoholic. Not saying that out of denial, or attention seeking, I’m just saying what I know to be true. I’m not and I’m pretty sure most of these people going to AA aren’t either. They’re feigning it because they’re trendy attention seeking whores.

My dad was an alcoholic. He let booze take over his life. He had a compulsion to drink. When he finally stopped, it was too late to take back everything he’d done.

Alcoholism isn’t a trend. It’s a disease. It’s a disease you never recover from and the people around you…they never recover from it either. So stop treating it like a fucking slap bracelet. It’s not a fad.

It’s life. And sometimes, life really, really sucks.

You Can Get As Fat As You Want…Just Don’t Expect Me To Kiss Your Ass About It

When I was a child, my father shared a sage piece of advice with me.

No one in the world gives a shit if you’re sad. Get over it and get me another beer.

It genuinely was the nicest 3rd birthday a girl could ask for.

As drunkenly mean as my dad might have been the day he shared that advice with me, he was also right. He taught me a valuable lesson. Other people will never see things from your point of view. They will never live in your shoes. And that’s ok.

Bullying is a bit of a buzzword these days and it annoys me. It annoys me because the fear of being called bullies is making us all afraid to say anything at all. It’s making it so we can’t share our opinions without being accused of being a bully or blaming the victim.

It’s making it ok to not just validate, but celebrate, other people’s bad life choices.

A few days back, I was listening to this podcast. It’s called the Biggest Problem In the Universe. Hilarious, if you’re ever looking for something to listen to.

One day, one of the biggest problems was ‘everyone needs to lose twenty pounds.’ The main complaint was that the average female weight was like 150 and that most girls who weighed that amount could stand to lose 20 pounds.

150_pound_woman_by_lacey_brooke_cptAs I weigh 150, I was immediately insulted. I like the way I look. I am by no means slender, but I look good. How dare some guy who had never seen me say that I didn’t look good? How dare he suggest I need to lose 20 pounds? Then, I took a shower and caught a glimpse of my naked ass in my full-length mirror and I realized he was probably right. I could stand to lose twenty pounds.

So I immediately raced to the gym…and bought a Coke from the vending machine that sits right outside of its doors to mix with my vodka. Dealing with personal faults is so much easier when you’re loaded.

Here’s the deal. He’s probably right. I’m a bit overweight. And I’m not changing a thing. It isn’t about embracing my beautiful, curvy body. It isn’t about forcing someone to say I’m pretty when they don’t think I am. It’s about me deciding how important my looks are to me.

I don’t try very hard on the way I look. I don’t watch what I eat. I don’t watch what I drink. I don’t go to the gym (unless I’m buying mixers for my booze). My wardrobe is a revolving stack of novelty t-shirts and sweatpants I bought at yard sales.  When it comes to physical appearance, I am not trying.

When I put no effort at all into the way I look, isn’t it kind of fucking dumb to expect everyone to think I’m beautiful?

I think of it this way. I’m a novelist. Most of my books, I work very hard on. People like my writing because I make a serious effort to entertain in my writing.

I could pull out a bunch of the shitty teen-angst filled poetry that I wrote when I was 15, slap it up on Amazon without spell checking or formatting it, and not make a single fucking sale. Would it be ok for me to get pissed when my existing fan base doesn’t praise my writing and call it beautiful? No, of course not. In fact, I’d expect several hundred emails asking if I’d had a stroke.

In short, I wouldn’t expect people to like what I’d written, because I made no effort at all when I was writing it.

Generally, beauty trends follow what is hard to obtain. During the depression, the hottest of women were slightly chubby, because being chubby was a sign of wealth. It meant you could actually afford food. Fat became synonymous with high class. In some poorer countries, this is still the case.

But in America, our food is filled with white flour, refined sugars and empty calories.  To avoid getting chubby on this stuff, you either need to spend the money to buy other products, or you need to log a fuckton of hours at the gym. You need to work to be thin. No, people aren’t born beautiful. They work at it and they work hard.

Take my friend, Sassy Filipina for example. Sassy’s an easy dime. She was born with perfect features, great skin, and very good hair.  And if she’d decided to live on a steady diet of American food and reality television, she would look just as slovenly as any four on the scale.

But Sassy works for her 10 status. Despite having two kids and a high-pressure job, she watches what she eats and she goes to four spin classes a week. She stays active all the time and she stays attractive all the time. She works hard to look the way she does because being attractive is important to her.

To me, ‘everyone is beautiful’ falls into the same category as ‘everyone gets a trophy’. It’s stupid. I wouldn’t expect someone to tell me I’m a world-class mathematician because I know how to work a calculator, just to avoid hurting my feelings. And I don’t expect people to call me beautiful when I make no effort at all to be beautiful.

Am I saying you can’t be pretty and chubby? Not at all. I have a few extra pounds on me, but I still turn heads when I walk into a room…especially when that room is a Cuban dance club. I’m just saying that when you demand everyone embrace your curvy body as the new standard of beauty, you’re being unfair. You’re being unfair to the people that don’t find that attractive and you’re being unfair to the people that actually work hard to meet that standard of beauty we as a people have set.

You’re also focusing way too much on your looks. One day, we will all be ugly. Every last one of us. I don’t focus too much on my looks because of that (and also the fact that I’m incredibly lazy). So don’t expect people to tell you you’re beautiful just because you roll out of bed every morning. People who really want to be physically beautiful work hard to be that way. If you don’t want to put in the effort, then don’t expect the praise.

As for me, I don’t want to put in the effort. I’d rather stick to using the gym as a place to buy mixers for my drinks. To me, that’s just fucking beautiful.