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.
You’ve probably heard me reference it a few times in passing. My random, weird hatred for the obscure 80’s sitcom star, Kirk Cameron. Maybe you’ve wondered about it. Maybe you know about his politics and you think you know the reason. I do tend to fall into the liberal end of the spectrum and I disagree with him on just about everything. But generally, I don’t hate the people I disagree with. I just think they’re idiots.
If you’ve never heard him, he was in a little sitcom called Growing Pains from 1985 to 1992. He played the wise cracking, trouble making Mike Seaver on the show and I watched it every week just for him.
Back then, all my main crushes were on TV. I come from a small town. The kind of small town that’s made up of like 4 major families and everyone is related. Every time I came home, head over heals for some guy I’d just met, my mom would say the following sentence as soon as I told her his name.
“He’s your cousin.”
So all my crushes were television crushes. I had Zach on Saved by the Bell. I had Eric on Head of the Class. But above all, I had Mike Seaver on Growing Pains.
Then the fucker went and betrayed me.
In real life, Kirk Cameron isn’t the fun loving, wise cracking bad boy he was on the show. He is actually a bible toting, anti-gay, creationism preaching, bigoted moron .
And he fucked with my television.
If you watched Growing Pains, then chances are you noticed around the time Kirk Cameron hit 17, it started to suck. Like, really suck. It got kind of heavy and depressing. It wasn’t that the show was running out of ideas. Seven years is a decent run for a sitcom but it’s hardly groundbreaking. The show might have had a few more years left in it.
Then, 17 year old Kirk found Jesus. He was at a real low point in his life, and he’d finally hit rock bottom. One day, as he was sitting on the hood of his sports car, wondering what to spend his $50,000 a week salary on, he decided the thing that was missing was religion. Over the top religion. He found Jesus.
And he decided that if he found Jesus, everyone else needed to find him too. He hijacked Growing Pains and started crossing out every storyline he considered to be too adult or inappropriate. They had to listen to him because he was the fucking show. Unfortunately, following the holy rollers changes, Mike Seaver wasn’t Mike Seaver anymore. Kirk Cameron murdered him because he was too ‘adult’ and ‘inappropriate’.
It’s not his views or his politics that make me hate Kirk Cameron. I honestly don’t give a crap. I completely disagree with him, and it relieves me that most people disagree with him as well. What bothers me is when someone uses their position to shove their half-formed opinion down other people’s throats.
And what really bothers me is when someone ruins my television.
It was my very first experience with what complete douches actors could be. I started to doubt all my crushes. Was Zach going to decide Kelly’s mini-skirts were too short and get her thrown off Saved by the Bell? Was Eric going to burn his leather jacket and quit Head of the Class to go to parochial school? I could never trust a sitcom crush again.
In short, I hate Kirk Cameron because he ruined my ability to get aroused by 80’s sitcom bad boys. And for that, I will never forgive him.
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.
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.
With the holiday season in full swing, I really wanted to take the opportunity to express my deep love and appreciation for one individual who has changed my life. This person has made my days easier and my existence better. Because of my deep, unconditional love for this person, I don’t feel the need to hide my deep affection for him. So I am posting an online love letter to him, with the hopes that fate will allow him to stumble onto it.
Dear Indian Guy Who Owns the Ghetto Gas Station that Sells Bongs by My House,
I just wanted to say thanks you for, well, everything. It’s not about one major thing that you’ve done, but a collection of the little things, that make you so incredibly awesome.
I remember the first time we met. I came in wearing two different shoes and a pair of sweatpants with penguins on them. You smiled at me through the shine of a skull-shaped, multi-chamber, 2 foot bong and it was love at first site. You didn’t judge me as I purchased a 12 pack and 11 Slim Jims at 8 am on a Tuesday morning. I appreciated that.
I appreciate the fact that you continue to sell boiled peanuts even though no one wants them, and they go on, sitting in that greasy brownish water until you throw them out. You know they’ll be rejected, but you still hope, day after day. Because you believe in your peanuts, even if no one else does.
Thank you for naming your gas station ‘Gas Station’, because that really gets to the point, doesn’t it? Who the hell needs silly names when you can just be succinct? I’m not going to the “Kangaroo” or the “7-11”. I’m just going to the ‘Gas Station’. Thanks for not fancying it up and turning into one of those snobs like at the 7-11.
I appreciate the fact that you continue to hit on me, even though I’ve never been anything that resembles attractive when I came into your store. I think we both know from my purchases that I am a train wreck of a person and I appreciate the daily confidence boost.
Thanks for occasionally hooking me up with weed. I mean, it shwag weed, but still, A for effort. On the flip side, thanks for occasionally accepting weed as legal tender. While we disagree on the value of one incredibly dank hydro nugget from up north, it’s nice to know you’re willing to negotiate.
Thanks for not getting mad when I hurled in your parking lot. Oh, by the way, it was me that hurled in your parking lot.
Thanks for laughing at that slightly racist statement I made about the grape cigars you are selling. I noticed they are selling like hot cakes. Well done.
In conclusion, I know my love is unrequited. The only reason you are so nice to me is because my regular cigarette and alcohol purchases are putting your children through college. But thanks anyway. You brighten my day and you are truly making the world a better place one boiled peanut at a time.
When some people get drunk, they get friendly. When other people get drunk, they get into fights. Occasionally, there are those annoying drunks that get weepy. As for me, when I get drunk…well, how do I put this politely?
Oh yeah, I turn into a massive whore.
Generally, this isn’t a problem. It mainly just involves making out with strangers and giving my number out indiscriminately. Usually, the whole phone number thing isn’t an issue, because I’m so drunk I can no longer recall my own number. In the off chance that I can, when I’m drunk I write like a 4 year old with palsy, so it kind of works out.
Then I got business cards. Seriously, eat me VistaPrint. What the hell was I thinking?
Last night, I went out, purse full of business cards. Like any responsible adult, I had my mother drop me off so I could just get annihilated drunk. It was all going swimmingly. Then about, um 4000 beers in, I morphed into my alter ego, Drunkenslutessa, and started handing those things out like they were fucking confetti at a New Years Eve party.
This morning, I awoke to a cell phone full of text messages from a large group of (hopefully) handsome strangers.
Here’s where it gets complicated.
In my drunken state, I had no ability to retain any identifying information about any of these guys. Not even names. I’m stuck with vague descriptions, like ‘hot marine’, or ‘hot British guy’ or ‘hot Brazilian soccer team’ (yeah, that wasn’t a typo. I’m pretty sure I gave my number to an entire soccer team.)
So now, when one of them texts me, I have to try and figure out who the hell they are by asking a series of subtle questions like ‘what’s your favorite color’ or ‘what kind of music do you like’ or ‘how do you feel about deregulating fracking in Central Scotland for the purposes of extracting previously unexploited shale gas reserves?’
Then it occurred to me that my web address is also on my business cards. Which means, that if these guys have any computer literacy at all, they might have stumbled onto my web page by now. This works out perfectly, because I can do this;
***NOTICE TO ALL THE MEN THAT I MAY HAVE SEXUALLY VIOLATED LAST NIGHT IN AND AWKWARD AND INCREDIBLY PUBLIC WAY***
First off, let me say right off the bat, it was a pleasure to meet you. If I have not responded to your text by now, please be assured its nothing against you. I just have many candidates to consider for the position…the position being under me (or on top of me, if you insist on being a traditionalist).
I would like to clarify one point before this goes any further between us. I am not usually a crass, slutty, boorish, outspoken person who randomly touches strangers in their bathing suit area on the first meeting. You might be surprised to learn this, but I am actually a crass, slutty, boorish outspoken person who only touches people in their bathing suit area on the third date…most of the time.
To explain my behavior last night, I suffer from a disability called ‘slutmorphosis’. This results in me turning into an absolute whore once I have had more than three beers. I also haven’t been laid in awhile, so I have a lot of pent up frustration. The way I see it, I really need to get it on…or start a fight club. Maybe both.
Anyway, I want to apologize for any embarrassment I may have caused when I touched your penis in front of your girlfriend, wife, children, pastor or AA sponsor. My hands seem to have a mind of their own, which makes me an excellent writer, but also a potential sex offender.
If you are still interested in seeing me, please text your name, nationality and feelings on UK fracking to me at your earliest convenience. If not, thank you for your initial interest…and thank you for letting me touch your penis.
Evil Genius, Writer and Drunken Whore
They way I see it, anyone who would tolerate me after last nights behavior might be the one. As such, I’m making sure I cover all my bases. In addition, anyone who would hunt me down on the internet and actually read that message might just have the obsessive tendencies that I need in a mate to feed my damn near compulsive attention seeking behaviors. It’s a win/win.
Thank you internet.
After 2 years of nights spent hunched over my computer, up until 2 in the morning, writing until my fingers cramped, it all comes together. After 24 months of hair pulling frustration, giving up, deleting paragraphs, chapters and pages, it’s finally done.
Charlie Sheen has dropped the restraining order. Guess whose bushes I’ll be in tonight. Winning!
Also, between penning psychotic fan letters to aging celebrities, I wrote a book.
My book, Strangely Sober, is currently on sale for $2.99 on Kindle. However, if that amount would be breaking the bank, I suggest you wait until August 1, 2012, when I will be offering a free download.
Amazon reviews are greatly appreciated…unless you hate it. Then keep your opinion to yourself. Nobody likes a whiner.