It was an early Friday morning when I received an ominous text message from T-Mobile.
Dear valued customer;
Please note that the outrageously out of date phone that you’re currently using will no longer be supported by our network as of June 6, 2015. Honestly, we’re seriously surprised we even had to send this message. We figured that pure embarrassment would have caused you to replace that brick of a phone you’ve been carrying. Jesus, you must look like Zach Morris from Saved by the Bell…
Please come in and replace your phone ASAP. As a precaution, we’ve also sent this message to your Aol.com email account…and dispatched a time machine to 1993, where you’ve apparently been living for the past 20 years.
Ok, so not the exact text from T-Mobile. I took some artistic license. The message was the same.
Replace your phone, you dated bitch.
Here’s the thing. I’m cool with computers. I recently got a new laptop and I had no problem naming the specs I wanted when I hunted it down.
But I suck with mobile. I mean, why would I need to be good at it? As previously stated, I’m a crazy recluse who rarely leaves the house. So I don’t pay a lot of attention to my phone and I’m certainly not an iPhone kind of girl. Those things cost like $600!
Do you people realize how much weed that could buy?
So of course, it was with great trepidation that I headed down to my local cell phone store to get myself a new texting machine.
I arrived at the store and was immediately overwhelmed with how trendy everything was. There was some 23-year-old emo chick behind the counter, with gauged ears and a disinterested look on her face, talking to an equally trendy looking dread-locked man holding a phone with enough apps on it to take down the International Space Station.
So I sat there with my sad little phone, in my sensible flats with my normal sized piercings, and I waited and eavesdropped.
“Ok, Mr. Danger, I’ve added your sym card to your new Nokia 89000 4G LTE Wi-Fi Capable Planet Crusher Sat Nav, ESPN B-52 Phone. It looks like all 8,000 of your contacts have transferred successfully. Have a nice day.”
8000 contacts? Who the hell has 8000 contacts? I immediately felt angry and inadequate at the same time. I don’t have 8000 contacts. I’m not even sure I’ve met 8000 people in my whole life.
I checked my phone and felt even worse. 34 contacts. And four of those contacts were duplicates for the pizza place that I tried to add after one too many beers.
Finally, it was my turn. Gauged ear girl turned to look at me. “How can I help you?”
I thrust my phone at her, holding it with two fingers, as though it was covered in Ebola. “I need to replace this.”
She gave me a confused look. “Have you been out of the country?” She studied the phone as though looking at a strange artifact from the past, like one of those steam powered dildos from the 1800s. “I don’t think this company makes these anymore. Hell, I don’t even think they make phones anymore. They mainly supply prisons with metal detectors now.”
“Um, yeah, I’ve been busy…” I left it at that, hoping she’d assume I was some kind of super spy who’d been on a mission in Yemen and didn’t have access to technology made after 2001.
“Ok, so what are you looking for?”
I had figured that was evident. “A phone.”
“Yes.” She drew her answer out very slow, like she was talking to a mentally unbalanced person. “But what do you need to do with it?”
“Fruit Ninja.” That answer was immediate. My phone time is literally spent 1% on texts, 2% on phone calls and 97% on Fruit Ninja.
We decided on a Samsung Galaxy for two reasons. One, it was free and two, I broke 1000 on Fruit Ninja when she let me try it out.
I went home pretty happy with my purchase. Granted, I’m not 100% sure on how to use everything. I might have downloaded every video ever uploaded to YouTube when trying to upload my photos to my computer, and I’m almost sure I accidentally texted everyone I know a photo of a cartoon dog pooping.
But Fruit Ninja seems to be working. In the end, that’s all that really matters. I also managed to take a selfie! Check it out.
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.
- Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?
- Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking– stop telling you what to do?
- Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?
- 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.
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.
As 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.
I have an extensive listing of things that are bad for me that I continue to do. I drink, I have promiscuous sex, I refuse to get a real job and I drive a car that’s brake system is the equivalent of Fred Flintstone stopping a car with his feet. I take great pride in living a high-risk lifestyle.
But above all, I smoke. I’m not one of those pussy, “social smokers’. You know, those hipster assholes who steal all your cigarettes when you’re out drinking together? I am a hardcore, fully addicted smoker. To give you an example, one time, I was involved in a fire. My old roommate had accidentally lit her bed on fire (sexy, right?) with a candle while she was sleeping.
As we raced out the doors, sprinklers coming on and the hallways filling with acrid smoke, I could only think of one thing.
“Shit, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”
I was able to bum one from a fireman, but my point here is, that even engulfed in a full wall of smoke, all I could think about was inhaling more.
So yeah, I’m an addict.
So why do all you anti-smoking assholes out there think you’re the ones who are going to get through to me? If I can smoke in a three-alarm fire, chances are your little speech about the dangers of emphysema are going in one ear and out the other.
The other day, I was at Gas Station, my favorite place on earth. I was buying my standard pack of 305 menthols from my friendly Indian cashier, who I refer to as Mr. Indian John Travolta (because he looks like an Indian John Travolta), when some overweight, redneck asshole comes popping out of the bathroom, dragging an 18 pack of beer with him.
He sees the cigarettes in my hand. “You know those things are bad for you?”
This time, instead of just rolling my eyes, I responded.
“Holy shit, you’re fucking kidding me! I had no idea. See my doctor told me they were ideal for curing ‘the vapors’ and ‘female hysteria’. Why would he lie to me? They should put a warning on these things or something! <flips over pack in my hands with wide-eyed idiot look> Oh, wait, here’s one, right from the Surgeon General. Funny I’ve never noticed it before. <eyes man suspiciously> Are you the surgeon general? If so, thank you., so much. You really changed my life.”
This is not a stupid man. He clearly knew I was making fun of him. So he responded. “Ok, I’m sorry. You’re just too pretty to smoke.”
Guys, I know you think you’re flirting when you say stuff like this, but honestly, it‘s statements like this that make me want to dip my goddamn face in battery acid. Because when you say this, you’re saying one of two things.
One, being pretty makes me stupider than normal people and I need to be told how to make my life decisions. Or two, being pretty makes me a more valuable breeding commodity that needs to be extended as long as possible despite its self-destructive tendencies.
Neither of those opinions are valid. First off, I’m pretty fucking smart. I might not be Steven Hawking, but I can personally guarantee you that the phrase ‘too pretty to smoke’ doesn’t come off as flirtation to smart girls. It comes off as condescending.
Second, in case you’re eyeing me up for an egg candidate, being pretty doesn’t make me a good breeder. I’m thirty-four and I like to drink while occasionally dabbling in recreational drug use. There’s a very good chance that any eggs coming out of this uterus will be filled with all kinds of brain damage.
But hey, at least they’ll be pretty.
So after the dude told me I was too ‘pretty to smoke’ I took the kid gloves off.
“Well, you’re too fat to pee standing up, but you don’t see me kicking in the bathroom stall and warning you of the dangers of lumbar herniation while you’re draining the lizard, now do you?”
With that, the bathroom man gave Mr. Indian John Travolta one of those ‘this bitch is crazy’ looks and walked out of the store.
Look, people, stop this. Stop getting into other people’s faces about the personal decisions they make with their bodies. You don’t see me wandering around restaurants, telling fat people to lay off the red meat and get a chicken salad, do you? No, because what you do with yourself is up to you.
You don’t know me and you don’t know my life. For all you know, I might not be that interested in living that long anyway. My grandfather smoked every day of his adult life before he died of cancer at 69.
To me, that’s just about perfect. Long enough to live a full life, and not so long that I become this needy, dependent thing, just waiting to die. I have no desire to live to 100. I’d rather cut this all off at the peak and move on to the next life.
“Too pretty to smoke’ is not a flirtation. It’s condescending, rude and makes me want to stab you in the eye.
I smoke because I’m addicted and I don’t need you reminding me that ‘smoking is bad for you’. I’m not fucking stupid. I’m addicted and every time I try to quit, some idiot comes up and reminds me of why it would be better to die young anyway.
We all make bad choices. Chances are, if you’re reading this now, you’re addicted to some drug or another; you’re in a relationship that just isn’t right for you, or a job you hate. Maybe you weigh a little too much or maybe you focus on your weight too much. We all have our vices. It’s up to us to decide how much we allow those vices to control our lives.
Right now, me and smoking, we’re at a happy medium. So stop with the convenience store sermons, because cigarettes have been part of my life for far longer than you, and neither of us gives a shit about your opinions.
I’ve never been a particularly religious person. That’s probably because every major religion I’ve ever looked into (with the exception of Wicca, which I just find strange) tends to treat women more like accessories than people. Those of us without dangly bits are expected to make babies, clean houses and listen to men.
I hate babies. I haven’t cleaned anything since 1996, and judging from my hate mail, most men are far too stupid to be worth listening to. To me, being a religious woman is a lot like being a black Republican. I just don’t get it.
But I feel like I’m missing out. Aside from having an imaginary friend to talk to, free spaghetti suppers, and unlimited bingo nights, I’m also missing out on those sweet, sweet tax incentives.
So I’m creating a new religion. It’s called Agnostic Apathy. Our main creed will be as follows.
“The only people who know what happens after you die are dead people. So we should all worry about what happens after we’re dead when we’re actually dead.”
Of course, a platform of apathy is no platform at all (literally) so here are some guidelines to help you all live a pure and godly Agnostic Apathist lifestyle.
#1 – Every religion needs a book, but I don’t feel like writing one. It’s probably the apathy. So our bible will default to my favorite book “Valley of the Dolls.” There are many valuable life lessons to be learned in “Valley of the Dolls”, including;
- Never mix amphetamines with sedatives. You’ll break even and ruin your buzz.
- If you catch your possibly gay husband sleeping with your assistant in your cabana, make sure to disinfect your pool with plenty of rum
- Suicide attempts are a great way to earn public sympathy and movie roles
- All your friends will eventually turn on you if enough money is involved.
I’m sure that there are a lot more life lessons to be had in “Valley of the Dolls,” but I’m a bit too buzzed to look them up. That’s because I’m following one of “Valley of the Dolls’” best life lessons of all.
There is no problem so big that alcohol can’t fix it.
#2 – Every religion needs a god to pray to. That’s why I’ve decided to cut out the Hollywood middleman and start praying to Morgan Freeman.
Morgan Freeman is a great messiah. He’s friendly, yet stern. He has a delightful speaking voice. And he knows a lot of penguin trivia. As an added benefit, he’s played the role of god like 400 times, so he has experience.
#3 – Door to door recruiting is encouraged. Not a lot of credible ‘non-crazy’ religions go door-to-door trying to recruit new members. Think about it. When was the last time you opened your door to a bunch of Hasidic Jews who wanted to discuss the Torah with you?
That’s because the Hasidic Jews already have a fan following. The newer, wackier religions don’t. But they also don’t have a good marketing policy. It’s my understanding that the Jehovahs and the Mormons both have a standard script and procedure manual for door knocking. So I’ve created my own, and it’s going to be much more effective, using an easy step-by-step method.
- Get loaded. It’s so much easier to talk to people when you’re loaded.
- Bring beer.
- Knock on the door.
- Use a powerful greeting that will get your prospect’s attention. I recommend “What’s up, bitches? Can I interest you in some free beer?”
- Get prospect extremely intoxicated.
- Ask for money
I’m estimating at least a 90% success rate with that method, as opposed to the 0.005% success rate of other door knockers.
Suck it, Mormons.
#4 – We’re going to borrow the stuff I actually like from other religions.
Jews, nice call on the ‘no hell’ thing. Of course, it doesn’t make up for the big thing you got wrong; i.e. killing Jesus. But it’s still a good idea.
Catholics, I love the heavy focus on wine. Of course, I imagine the ratio of kid diddling to priest goes up significantly once everyone is buzzed, so let’s remember to drink responsibly.
Muslims…um…ahhh? No booze, smoking or bacon? And for all that, I get virgins in the afterlife? Why the hell would I want virgins? They have no idea what they’re doing! Sorry bros, you can keep the Quran. It kind of sounds like a downer.
Wiccans, I dig the clothes. They’re very forgiving, which I need after all that Catholic wine drinking. Sure the earth worship thing makes you all look like nutjobs, but at least you look sexy and bohemian when you do it.
Buddhists, your messiah is a giant brown baby. I love it! Note to all, correction on the Morgan Freeman thing. Our messiah will now be played by a giant brown baby, narrated by Morgan Freeman.
If I missed any other major religions, you should know I just didn’t care enough to look you up on Wikipedia. Sorry.
Ok, I’ve put a lot of work into this new religion. By work, I mean I drank four beers and spent an hour insulting as many people as I could. In my world that’s work. So I’m hopeful people will get on board. If you’re interested in becoming a member, there is only one important thing you have to do.
“Women can’t be funny.”
This is a statement I hear a lot. I’m not sure where it came from, but the earliest instance I know of occurs in a 1695 article written by William Congreve, which states;
“I must confess I have never made an observation of what I apprehend to be true humor in women. Perhaps passions are too powerful in that sex to let humor have its course; or maybe by reason of their natural coldness, humor cannot exert itself to that extravagant degree, which is does in the male sex.”
Now look, based on my review of William Congreve’s body of work, I could make my own assertion and create an article called “People Named William Can’t be Funny” …but I’m not the kind of girl to generalize.
I bring this up tonight because I got yet another email from yet another disgruntled commentator, who is firm in his assertion that Essa Alroc is, in fact, a man. Following his email, I immediately raced to my bathroom, yanked down my pants, and was relieved to find that my vagina was just where I left it.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Just because I’m funny doesn’t mean I have a dick. I assure you all, I really am the smoking hot blonde, with the tiny white dog, in the picture slightly to the right. I don’t avoid posting pictures of myself on this page because I’m trying to hide my Adam’s Apple. I avoid posting them because in every picture, I look exactly like this;
What can I say? I’m not photogenic and something about someone pulling out a camera makes me want to sneeze and fart simultaneously.
I’ve been told my tone is masculine, my subjects are masculine and even, from one flaky ‘chakra counselor’ (how the fuck is that a job title?) that my aura is masculine. I don’t think that’s the case. I think it’s simply the fact that people aren’t yet used to my awesome style.
Look, I’m not one to jump on the feminist bandwagon, but the fact is until very recently, the female gender has been repressed. Our main goal in life wasn’t to impress society. It was to impress a man. Rule of thumb when impressing a man?
YOU don’t try to be funny. You make HIM feel like HE’S funny.
Women having goals outside of marriage and children is a relatively recent occurrence. It wasn’t until the sexual liberation of the 60s that we were even allowed to fuck who we wanted without being ostracized. Even then, our freedom became all about our sexuality. When it came to freedom of opinions, we were nothing more than a bunch of angry dykes who couldn’t get men.
I got lucky. I was born at the tail end of that repression. From early childhood, it was ingrained in me that it’s far more important to be an interesting person than it is to be wife material. I thank having very liberal parents for that. Being wife material is kind of my idea of hell.
To me, wife material = boring as fuck
Yes, I’m a mother. But this isn’t a ‘mom blog’ because I’m defined by more than the ability to shove something the same size and weight as a bowling ball out of my vagina…though I will admit it’s a impressive feat. I don’t make this blog about dating because I don’t date. I haven’t in years. As a single woman with horrible taste in men, I would consider it the absolute height of irresponsibility to bring some man I’ve only known for a few weeks around my child and introduce him as his new daddy. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure my kid would shank him.
He has a bit of an Oedipus complex that I’m sincerely hoping he’ll grow out of.
So no, I don’t stick to ‘female friendly’ topics. This blog isn’t about me dating or me being a mom or about me empowering women. The phrase ‘women’s empowerment’ genuinely makes me throw up a little. This site is here so I can vent about the shit everyone else does to piss me off. The object of my site isn’t to impress anyone. It’s to piss you off, and maybe make you laugh a little.
I’m not a man. I’m not even androgynous. I’m very clearly a woman. I have the tits to prove it and they are fucking fantastic. But this blog isn’t about my fantastic tits (though they are so fantastic, they deserve their own blog). This blog is about my opinions on everything, hence the name “Essa on Everything.”
I’m not a man writing as a woman, or even a woman writing as a woman. I’m a person who writes the things most people are thinking in their heads anyway. If you’re a regular reader, go ahead and count the times that you’ve nodded in agreement over something I’ve said on here. That didn’t happen because I’m a chick. It happened because I’m a smart person who has no fear of hatemail.
The fact is I say what PEOPLE are thinking. I’m able to let the facts of a certain situation swirl around in my head for a bit, before I give a concise, intelligent, and oftentimes hilarious opinion.
I don’t need a pair of testicles to do it. So no people, I’m not a man. I’m just a girl who is a lot smarter than you. It happens and it happens a lot more than you might think.
Deal with it.
Yeah, that title will probably get people sending hate comments without reading everything else I’m going to write, but I’m leaving it.
In case you’re part of my massive Amish following and don’t have access to the internet, let me recap what’s going on.
This is Bill Cosby.
He is an American comic who is best known for his roll as Dr. Cliff Huxtable on the Cosby Show. At one time, he was the highest paid actor on American television. The next few facts are pertinent to the story that follows.
- A well known comedian made a joke about Bill Cosby being a serial rapist
- A few previously reported (but never prosecuted) sexual assault allegations resurfaced
- New allegations began surfacing, though every one was well past the SOL
- Enter the viral lynch mob
Look, I’m not saying I know the truth. Whether people are exaggerating or whether Bill Cosby deserved the number one spot on the sex offender’s registry, there is one simple problem with all of these stories.
That simple problem is that the American people adopted a well known maxim, and based our entire legal system on in. I’ll put it down in the original Latin, from chapter 4 of my old criminal law textbooks
cum per rerum naturam factum negantis probatio nulla sit
For those of us who don’t speak a thousand year old dead language, I slapped that into Google translate and this is what I got back
The proof lies upon him who affirms, not upon him who denies
Or to shorten it for all you die hard Law and Order fans…innocent until proven guilty. Look, even though that maxim sometimes allows bad people to go free, I stand behind it. I stand behind it because of this.
As a logical thinker, I know it’s virtually impossible to prove a negative. For example, I can’t prove that I’m NOT a terrorist. I could point out that I’m an American born girl who holds no extremist beliefs. I could point out that I have no affiliation with any known terrorists. I could point out that my knowledge on how to make both a pipe bomb and mustard gas results from research for my novels and I never intend to use any of this knowledge to hurt anyone.
In a country where ‘guilty until proven innocent’ prevails, that last sentence alone would be enough to convict me. After all, I can’t prove I’m NOT a terrorist, so I must be one. Otherwise, why would I need to know how to make a pipe bomb or mustard gas?
I don’t want to live in a place where logic like that is considered valid.
Right now, Bill Cosby is in the same situation. He can’t prove that he’s not a rapist…so he must be. Other than testimonial evidence, there is nothing. There is no physical evidence, no hospital reports, no lab collections, no security cameras, no eye witness testimony, nothing except for the first person reports of various women who waited more than 30 years to report a crime had taken place.
The women who are coming forward now are not going to fix anything. It’s way too late to have the man charged for these alleged crimes and it’s way too late to provide any real proof. Many of them are coming forward now, saying “I was too scared in the 1960’s, 1970s, 1980s, to come forward. Bill Cosby was a powerful man!”
Actually, he was a popular comic in the 60s and 70s, but he was by no means powerful. Let’s be honest, he was a black man in the United States during a time when people still used words like ‘colored’ and thought movies made in black face qualified as art.
Hell, when Kobe Bryant was accused of rape in the early 2000s people were damn quick to start organizing protests and demands for his arrest despite extremely limited evidence. Are you trying to tell me that people were actually more tolerant of the alleged illegal actions of a black man two decades earlier, when they had the nuts to put out movies like “Soul Man”?
Let’s admit that our country has a history of separating ‘the power of a black man” from “the power of a man.” Whether innocent or guilty, if a woman had accused Bill Cosby of rape and taken him to court, he would have been destroyed by the media, simply based on the color of his skin alone, in the 1980s.
So don’t use the excuse “but he was so powerful!”He was not a Bill Cheney, who could shoot a friend in the face, and then write it off as a hilarious drunk hunting story.
I know I sound aggressive and angry, and in a way I am. I’m angry because these women are turning real issues into an SNL punchline, while they do nothing for real victims, who had the real courage to stand up and face their real attackers when they could actually do something about it.
In the decades after their alleged attacks, didn’t they think, just once, that Mr. Cosby would be likely to do something like this again? Didn’t they think that maybe if they came forward sooner, when such a crime was still criminally prosecutable, even if they had lost, their case might have acted as a deterrent? They might have prevented Bill Cosby from allegedly victimizing another person.
Instead, they waited until it was far too late to do anything about it, far too late to prove their cases and far too late to stop it from happening again. Bill Cosby is 77-years-old for god’s sake and he hasn’t done anything notable since “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” He no longer has the power or the influence he once did. He no longer has the ability to victimize someone that he once did.
What the hell is the point now? If it’s closure, it’s a shitty, and ultimately selfish, goal.
Here’s my problem with our American rape culture; sometimes, men are innocent. Sometimes, a woman reports a rape, despite the fact that a rape never happened. And suddenly, our justice system turns from innocent until proven guilty to guilty until proven innocent.
Once a man is painted with the rapist brush, even if he is exonerated, he can never really clear his name. He might escape with no prison time, but he’ll always be dirty in the eyes of the public. “Sex offender” is a worse label than “murderer” in this country, even if you were never actually convicted.
If I had my choice, I’d rather be a convicted murderer than an accused rapist. The public would be more forgiving.
So yes, I will probably be accused of victim blaming, but I’m going to say it. I don’t think it’s brave to come forward 40 years after your alleged assault. I find it suspect and I think it’s an insult to real survivors, who did the right thing and bravely reported their assaults to the police, before facing their accusers in court and making them pay, criminally (not with a hefty monetary settlement) for what they did.
Reporting decades late, taking money from your alleged attacker, that does not make you look good. It does not make you look credible. It makes you look like an opportunist and it casts shades of doubt on every single woman after you who is really victimized.
If Bill Cosby really is a rapist, if he has recent victims who have actual physical evidence of their assaults, your 40 year old testimony is not going to help them. Instead, it’s going to make real victims look like women who just jumped on the “Bill Cosby raped me” bandwagon. You’re not helping anyone.
Both sides of the story always deserve to be told, but they need to be told on a timely basis. Witnesses die, memories change and old events become fuzzy. These women who are accusing Bill Cosby of rape 40 years after it happened aren’t helping anyone. Instead, they could possibly be smearing an innocent man’s reputation or a current victim’s case. We don’t know, but we continue to attack.
I’m a logical person. I like facts. The facts are this. There are none. We have no unbiased testimony. Instead, we have reports from women who may or may not be lying. We have reports of Bill Cosby settling cases for money. Let’s be honest. If I was a famous, family oriented man, and a woman accused me of sexually assaulting her, I’d probably pay just to keep my reputation intact. A criminal sexual assault case, no matter how unfounded, would have destroyed his career. I give a shit how powerful he is. We’ve seen far more powerful people be brought down by much less.
Monetary settlement is not admission of guilt. In fact, when I was an insurance litigator, we used to settle stuff for ‘nuisance value’, even when we knew the claim was bullshit, because it just wasn’t worth going to court.
On the flipside, if I was a woman who’d been sexually assaulted, there is absolutely no amount of money you could pay to shut me up.
To me, the evidence that is there is not enough. That means the Bill Cosby is innocent until proven guilty. The testimony of women who might have ulterior motives, who offer no physical evidence, is not enough for me. So no, I won’t villanize Bill Cosby and I won’t jump on the hate bandwagon just because some women are choosing to bring their cases to the media. In the media, the rules of court don’t apply. There is no jury and plenty of people are ready to accuse people of ‘perpetrating a rape culture’ just for disagreeing with them.
I like our legal system the way it is. I like the fact that I don’t have to prove I’m NOT something based on flimsy and circumstantial evidence, presented by people who might have a vested interest in my conviction. So you want me to jump on the Bill Cosby hating bandwagon, I ask only one thing.
Prove your case rather than trying someone in the media and expecting the opinions of 1,000,000 people who don’t know all the facts to argue it for you. Accept the fact that this is an innocent until proven guilty society. So report the crime when it happens, accept the backlash and keep the real perpetrators from victimizing someone again.
Rape isn’t a platform. It’s a crime. But reporting a rape that didn’t really happen in order to get attention and smear someone’s name is also a crime. It’s called fraud and it ruins just as many lives as rape. Just ask Bernie Madoff.
If you didn’t have enough faith in the intelligence of the American people 40 years ago, when you might have actually had some evidence to support your story, how can you really expect us to side with you now?
I won’t believe you because you’re a man. I won’t believe you because you’re a woman. I’ll believe you when you present some facts. That is the basis of our legal system and I stand behind that. It’s part of being a logical American.