When you ask someone what they think of as the most romantic movie scene, you can generally expect a pretty cookie cutter response. They might mention the prow scene on ‘Titanic’. They might mention Harry’s speech in “When Harry Met Sally.” They might mention Noah scaling the Ferris wheel in “The Notebook.”
For me, the most romantic movie scene I can think of occurs at the end of ‘Hannibal’.
Clarice finally thinks she has Hannibal cornered. The cops are on their way. With sirens screaming in the background, she handcuffs Hannibal Lector’s wrist to hers. But Lector has one last trick up his sleeve. He pulls out a meat cleaver. It raises high in the air…fade to black over the sound of one distinct chop.
In the next scene, we learn that Hannibal did escape. We assume that it is because he cleaved off Clarisse’s hand in an attempt to free himself. Then we see him on a train, sharing a boxed lunch with a small boy. The camera pans down and we see his left hand is missing.
Hannibal cut off his own hand, rather than hurt Clarice. Now that is fucking love.
In case you can’t tell, my opinion on love can be pretty extreme. Chasing me down at an airport, singing a stupid song to me, or sending me flowers isn’t going to win me over. If you want me to swoon, you need to be willing to sacrifice a body part.
I always assumed that my extreme nature would result in my dying alone. Then I met you, internet stalker.
We met about a year ago. I’d just posted an article that included three pictures of me. You sent me a long rambling message. You said you were a fan. You told me I was pretty. I thanked you.
The emails kept coming, and they kept getting weirder. One spanned paragraphs and paragraphs. It was long, rambling and incoherent. I have to admit I didn’t understand much of it, but I got the general gist. You loved me…and you wanted to wear my face as a mask.
It was the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to me.
Most women are freaked out by stalkers, but I’m not most women. I spend a lot of time alone. I have nightmares about dying in complete obscurity. I have dreams that I disappear and no one ever notices. Those nightmares go away when you send an email.
Because as long as you’re around, I know there is one person out there who is obsessed enough with me to want me dead…and who fears my death like the apocalypse at the same time.
To me, that is just fucking beautiful.
As long as you exist, I will never cease to matter. For one person out there, I am their whole world. I am the love of their life and a ‘soul sucking, bitch, whore cunt’ all at the same time. I am the girl sending you coded messages in all my posts. My eyes really are looking right at you in my gravitar picture…even though it’s a profile shot and I’m actually looking somewhere off to the left.
I heard somewhere that stalking isn’t about love. It’s about power. I don’t believe that, internet stalker. The balance of power in our relationship is purely one sided. I am the sun by which your universe revolves. You are the guy that sends me weird obsessed messages that actually improve my self esteem. I ignore the threats and I accept the compliments.
Internet stalker, our dysfunctional relationship might be the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. Know that in my own way, I love you. I don’t love you like a lover, or like a brother. I think I love you in the same way Jodie Foster loves John Hinckley Jr. Through his obsession, he made an average looking girl with subpar acting skills a household name.
He made her Clarice…not the one in Hannibal, but you get my drift.
So thank you internet stalker. Most people would tell me not to engage with you, but half the reason you love me is because I never listen to people. You make me feel good. You make me feel relevant. For that, you deserve to be recognized.
And if you ever hit the Orlando, Florida area, there is an empty apartment right across the breezeway where you can see right into my bedroom.
Leaving the blinds open for you,
In the past, I’ve been a pretty big critic of the manoshpere. I’ve written a couple of articles on the manosphere, which makes these douches just foam at the mouth when they read them. I would say, aside from Christian fundamentalists, Westboro Baptist Church Members and Rush Limbaugh fan clubbers, they are probably my biggest haters. Despite the fact that they are only forth in line for my biggest haters, they seem to send me the most repeat emails.
In case you’re wondering what the manosphere is, it’s mainly a group of lonely internet douche bags who hate feminism and think women are everything that is wrong with the world.
Here’s the thing, I’m not a feminist. I’ve never really considered myself a feminist because I think once you start supporting the interest of one group of over another, you become the thing that you were complaining about in the first place. I don’t believe in ‘women’s rights’. I believe in ‘human’ rights.
But, because I am an angry, outspoken writer who just happens to have a vagina, I attracted their attention at one point. To be fair, I did call them retards on several occasions, so I can’t pretend I’m an innocent party here. In fact, I might have entirely started the fight.
Yeah, I’ll do that. Must be my emotional feminine nature.
Look, douches who keep emailing me, I’m not a feminist. I’m an individualist. Get it right if you’re going to insult me.
I believe that some people have more value to the world than other people. What they have dangling (or not) between their legs doesn’t matter to me. I believe in the power of the person, not the striations of statistics. You all don’t seem to get that, which is why you are part of the problem in the world. Not part of the solution.
And most of you fuckers seem to have a lot of time on your hands, because you keep emailing me. Well, you might have a lot of time on your hands, but I don’t. So I’m going to answer all your questions in bulk, rather than spend the time emailing you. Consider this the first and last time I will respond to your arguments.
Question 1 – You have to admit that (insert bullshit statistic) is true.
Look, whenever you send me a fucking statistic, I think this; “statistics don’t lie, but only liars use statistics.” Depending on where you choose to conduct your study, you can make statistics say whatever you want. For example, Essa wants to prove that women are actually taller than men.
In my apartment block, I have me, Essa. I’m about 5’5” tall. Above me, I have four women who are professional models. Their heights are 5’9”, 5’11”, 6’2” and 5’8”.
Average women’s height = 5’9 inches
Onto the men. I have Mr. Washington and his son; 5’8” and 5’9” respectively. I have college student Kevin; 6’4”. I have insurance guy Mike; 5’7”. Finally, I have little guy Carl; 3’11”.
Average men’s height = 5’6 inches
There you go. Women are officially taller than men.
In short, fuck your statistics. Statistics will say whatever you want them to say, as long as you do the math right.
Question 2 – Women are emotional
Yeah, that’s what makes us different and kind of makes the world work. If it weren’t for emotional women, the world would just be full of dudes punching each other in the arms and working for no reason.
Emotions drive human beings. Having emotions outside of the desire to fuck, eat and sleep is what separates us from animals. Experiencing the full spectrum of emotions out there is what makes us special. My dog doesn’t get to experience the full spectrum of emotions. She’s happy, bored, and having sex with one of my couch cushions. Those are her levels. It might sound nice, but she will never find a cure for cancer.
Why? Because she doesn‘t care about cancer. She cares about fulfilling her most basic urges. If it weren’t for emotions, we would all still be grunting in caves and fucking rocks. Emotions are what make us special. Stop treating them like a bad thing.
Questions 3 – Why do women keep trading up?
One of the biggest complaints I hear from these men that email me is that women ‘trade up’. They marry starter husbands and then leave them as soon as they find something better.
But these men never seem to consider their own culpability in the situation. No, they were all behaving like perfect saints when their girls left them. They never cheated, so that means they are angels who are completely blameless in the process.
Um, no. How would you feel if you married a woman who was 5’4” and 100 pounds, and then 6 months later, became 5’4” and 200 pounds? How would you feel if she was active when she married you, but became a lazy asshole 3 months in?
Here’s the thing dudes; women don’t randomly change. We don’t suddenly fall out of love. Personally, I think whenever someone cheats in a relationship, both parties are to blame. If they were fulfilled at home, they wouldn’t have cheated.
So here are your choices dudes. Either you married an evil gold digger, who was an evil gold digger from the beginning, but you were too fucking stupid to notice. Or you married a chick, started ignoring her because you had her locked down, and she strayed out of boredom.
You’re not an innocent victim. You’re either a moron, or a lazy douche. Now stop bitching about it. You being dumb and marrying without a prenup is not the world’s problem. It’s yours.
Question 4 – Not really a questions but …”I’m never getting married because of bitches like you.”
Who gives a fuck? Die alone. No one cares and no one will ever love you. Ride that self pity train all the way to your grave, loser.
Question 4 – You talk all tough, but I bet you would totally fall for one of my lines.
I’m getting ready to share a deep dark secret here people.
Since 2006, I have been a professional ghostwriter. I didn’t go full time professional until about 1 year ago. However, in the time that I was ghostwriting part time, I wrote about 75 non-fiction, self help style books.
The majority of my ghostwriting projects focused on relationships, mental manipulation, emotional cues, body language and a little something called kenos.
That book that you read, those tips that you read, that you think I’m going to fall for because you are such a master manipulator? Yeah, I wrote those books.
I know about acting uninterested. I know about throwing out subtle insults. I know about deep eye contact. I know about light touching. Hell, I even know that advanced level shit about wearing one contact lens that is a little bit darker than the other. I know about it because I wrote it. And you did it.
You did it because I fucking told you to. Who’s the master manipulator here? Dance, puppets dance.
Question 5 – I bet you only act this way because you’re a lonely bitter old bitch who can’t get laid.
Let’s just get this out of the way; I can get laid any time I want. Just to make sure, I just went outside and screamed “hey, I’m a reasonably attractive women with no STDs, who needs some dick.” Approximately 7000 men and 4 women invited me into their apartments.
I know this might sound hard to believe, but women can be smart. We can be depressingly smart. The sad fact is, when a chick is really, really smart, most men are uncomfortable around her. It’s not the same way for chicks and dudes. A girl can hook up with a guy a lot smarter than her and feel completely ok with it. She’ll have smart babies. Things are wonderful.
Smart girls don’t work quite the same way. Guys get threatened. They don’t like it when we can name all the elements in the periodic table, and they have to Google what the periodic table is in the first place.
I got handed 40 more IQ points than I actually needed and now it’s my responsibility to figure out what I need to do with them. I have two choices.
I can dumb myself down so I’m nice and non-threatening. I could meet a nice man and pretend to be an average intelligence girl. I could laugh at his jokes, even when they’re dumb. I could let him talk down to me, to keep him from feeling threatened. I could pretend to not know he’s fucking around on me, while I tolerate his family, clean his house and pick his socks up off the floor.
Or I can fuck a bunch of really stupid, really attractive guys who mainly want to get into my pants because I flashed a shiny key ring.
So I go ahead and I buy shiny key rings in bulk. Boys, it isn’t 1953 anymore. I accepted the fact that I’m a trade off kind of girl a long time ago. I can be who I am, get laid on a regular basis, and go back to being me. Or I can fake something I’m not in order to fit an outdated custom.
I’m not the only girl who feels like this. Marriage and family isn’t the golden ring for us anymore. Sacrificing who we are to start a family isn’t what drives us anymore. We have bigger dreams than a nice house in the suburbs.
In short, somewhere between 1953 and now, women became people. We started having real experiences and living real lives. I get it when you send me messages telling me that children ‘do better in a nuclear family’. I really do.
But those children grow up to be adults, and half of those adults are female.
Look manosphere dudes, the reason you and me don’t get along isn’t because you’re manly men and I’m a feminist (meaning I’m a chick with an opinion, in your world).
The reason we don’t get along is because I hate hypocrites. And you fuckers, you are the worst kind of hypocrites there are. Because you refuse to see your own hypocrisy.
You bitch that women are only after men for their financial value.
Then you call women with kids or women over 35 ‘low value.’
You bitch that matriarchies ruin the world.
But you blindly refuse to see the damage patriarchies already cause (Taliban, cough, Taliban).
You bitch that feminists only want to do the easy, high paying jobs.
Then you bitch when women in the coal mining, welding and automotive industries file lawsuits because they are harassed while they’re just trying to do their low paying jobs.
You talk about how patriarchies are better for making children happy.
But you don’t seem to give a fuck how happy those children are when they grow up.
Simply stated manosphere, I don’t like you because you treat women like accessories and not people. You catalog our faults, while ignoring your own. You complain because we don’t want to fill the roles you’ve predefined for us. You complain because we leave you when you treat us like shit.
Nope, I’m not a feminist. I believe in the power of the people. I believe that some people are smarter than other people. But I believe in something else too. I believe that I am smarter than you. That has nothing to do with gender. That’s just a fucking fact. I get annoyed when you send me emails because I think “why the hell should I have to explain myself to someone who is not as smart as me?”
Seriously manosphere douches, I didn’t make you stupid. God did. Take it up with him (or her, whatever).
What I don’t believe in is separating the world by gender lines. I will never believe in doing that. Today, it would be wildly unacceptable for our military to separate ranks into ‘black soldiers’ and ‘white soldiers’. But it’s totally kosher to separate us into ‘male soldiers’ and ‘female soldiers’?
Fuck that. Manosphere boys, accept the fact that there are women out there that are just as smart as you. We are just as strong as you. According to my statistics, we are just as tall as you.
You keep emailing on a regular basis. Now you can stop, because I have answered all your questions. Now go fuck yourself, and I hope your testosterone overload gives you cancer (hey, I never claimed to be nice).
I’m working on something for one of my clients right now. It’s a bit emotional, so I do what I always do when I need to get emotional. I get shitfaced and pray for the god of ‘beer tears’ to help me out. Unfortunately, sometimes, I go a bit the other way and get kind of snarky when I drink. This is one of those times.
This article is kind of one of those ‘power of the universe’ type deals. In it, my reader is supposed to picture her ideal man in her head. The more complete a picture she paints, the more the universe knows what to deliver.
Because that’s how you get what you want in life. You sit around and wish for it.
Anyway, I decided to see how accurate this ideal man thing is. Here is my description universe. Now go ahead and deliver it. I dare you.
Essa’s Ideal Man
My ideal man is 6’4” and 200 lbs…of pure solid gold bedecked in precious gems. Every morning, he arrives at my home promptly at 7:30, and (being very careful not to wake me up) deposits a large bag of money next to me in bed. He then makes my coffee and sets my Roku to play old Charles in Charge reruns as soon as I wake up. Then he leaves.
My ideal man has emerald green eyes. His eyes are emerald green because they are actually made of emeralds. He does not mind when I pluck his eyes out and use them as earrings, or pawn them when I need to buy weed. He’s cool like that.
Ever night, while I’m sleeping, my ideal man comes to my apartment and does my dishes. After that, he cleans, vacuums (completely noiselessly) and does my laundry. My ideal man knows how to fold my shirts in the exact same way that the people at the Gap fold shirts. He also never runs out of hangers.
I rarely see my ideal man, but I can tell he’s been to visit me because my house is filled with bags of money and it’s always clean. My ideal man is a lot like Santa, only he’s not fat, or old and he never leaves socks.
And also he’s made of solid gold.
There we go universe. There is my ideal man, described in as much detail as possible. According to The Secret, all I need to do now is sit on my ass and wait for him to be delivered.
I wonder how much UPS charges for shipping on solid gold men?
I used to date a real jock type guy. He was insanely into football. American style football with the pigskin and the tackling and whatnot. Anyway, every Sunday, you could find him parked on the couch, watching any football available. He’d watch college football when the pros were done. He’d watch the Army/Navy games. He was in a fantasy league. Football was his life.
I am not the athletic type. To me, watching football is about as exciting as cutting my toenails.
Unfortunately, these jock types all have one common theme. All they think about is sports. They expect the women in their lives to sit on the couch next to them, staring off into space, and getting them beers as they hog the TV to watch game after fucking game.
One Sunday, I told Mr. Jock I was through. I hated sports, the sex wasn’t that good and I was tired of watching football. Apparently, Mr. Jock kind of liked me, because he begged for a second chance. Knowing how obsessed with movies I am, he offered to trade off his Sunday football for a movie night. Against my better judgment, I caved.
That Sunday, he showed up with two DVDs; ‘Any Given Sunday’ and ‘Rudy’. I promptly dumped his ass and traded up to a Brazilian who thought football was soccer.
Here’s the thing. Several years after I dumped Mr. Jock, I decided to watch ‘Any Given Sunday’. I watched it, and I loved it. A few years before, I’d shot it down because it was a football movie. I hated football, so I was sure I would hate it. The fact that the guy I was dating rented it was a slap in the face. I don’t regret dumping the douchebag, but I do regret dumping on the movie, without having seen it.
And it suddenly occurred to me that this is the way I have been treating religion. I have let fanatics color my view of something that could actually be, well…good. I didn’t watch ‘Any Given Sunday’ with Mr. Jock, because I was sure it would just be more of his football obsessed hyperbole. I’ve stayed away from organized religion because I didn’t want to become like the fanatics who follow it without thought.
But if I can give a simple movie a chance, I am sure I can give an organized religion a chance.
I come to this epiphany because I recently received a very small, but very important miracle. It’s not something that I’m going to share on here. If you can believe it, coming from the girl who once wrote an entire post about her pubic hair, who described her suicide attempt in detail, and who openly admits to wanting to have a 5 way with One Direction, my miracle is a bit too personal to talk about. Maybe I’ll write about it in a year. Maybe I’ll write about it in a week. But for now, it’s just going to be my own miracle.
Regardless, I think I’ve made it clear before; I am not an atheist. I think atheists are just as arrogant as the religious types who pretend they know it all. I’m not even a true agnostic, because true agnostics don’t believe in a benevolent god. What I believe in is universal energy. What I believe in is that there is some true form of structure to the universe. Like Einstein, I believe there is an afterlife, because matter can never truly cease to exist.
And I want to believe that there is some kind of benevolent creator that set this all in motion. I want to believe there is a purpose.
But I will not be blindly led by rhetoric.
I was brought up Catholic because of tradition. Everyone around me was Catholic. All the kids went to catechism classes and had their first baptisms and communions when they were too young to make a decision. Religious brainwashing is easy for an unmolded mind. A mind that doesn’t understand that people can have ulterior motives and that not everything is as it seems.
It’s a hell of a lot harder to influence a 33 year old cynic, with a base understanding of physics, and knowledge that evolution is a fact, not a theory.
So I’m doing my own ‘Any Given Sunday’ retake. For the next ten Sundays (or day of devotion based on domination) I will attend 10 different religious services. I will follow their customs. I will go with an open mind. I will find out if there is some group out there, in the thousands of years that we’ve all been on this planet, that can somehow offer me a way to find a deeper connection to the universe.
Here’s what I won’t do during these services. I will not change my existing moral beliefs. I will not deny scientific evidence I know to be true. I won’t limit myself to one set of beliefs. Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Wicca and anything in between. All are welcome.
I will arrive. I will listen. I will participate. And then I will post my findings here.
Any given Sunday, for the next ten weeks, you will find Essa’s review of the religious service she attended that week. I won’t be cynical for cynicisms sake, but I won’t hold anything back either. God might had said ‘don’t take my name in vain’ in the Bible, but God didn’t say shit about ‘cunt, shit, fuck, assholes, motherfuckers, cocksuckers’ or ‘douchebags.”
My goal in this exercise is simple. I want to find the root of my miracle. I want to find it and I want to thank it. Consider this my fucked up version of Cinderella.
So for the next ten weeks, any given Sunday, you will find me here, either expanding my horizons or ranting angrily. If you have a religion in the Central Florida area you want me to try out, feel free to contact me on the contact page.
Mega-churches need not apply. Trust me; I’ve seen what you all do on “60 Minutes”.
I think we all know about my deep disdain for online dating. A lot of this comes from being a writer and a judgmental bitch. If someone can’t be bothered to capitalize or punctuate a sentence, I just assume they’re as lazy in bed as they are in their writing and move on. I’ve actually never found a ‘screwable’ during any online dating session and have decided to continue doing my predatory style pickups at bars for the foreseeable future.
However, I am currently ghostwriting a book and I had to do a little bit of research on a section. This brought me to an online forum where I saw this little gem posted.
You have to be a muscle bound stud, with a nice car and a high powered job to get anyone to respond to you on these sites.
I tried an experiment out on a dating site once — I created a profile of a guy who fitted the above description, and 10/10 women were going fucking crazy to contact me — lapdancers, models, etc, etc. All were cybering me and throwing their numbers at me.
Then I created a profile of a fat bearded guy with glasses. I said I live at home with mum, jobless and love Star Trek. Fuck me, every single one — even the uglies told “me” to get lost.
And I immediately thought ‘holy shit! What an incredible hypothesis! A woman, when given the choice between a handsome man who is financially stable, over a creepy fatty with no job, will go for the handsome guy almost every single fucking time! I wonder if this guy has alerted Harvard to this amazing study! I see a Nobel prize coming for someone…’
Look, assholes who post fake pictures of hot guys and get pissed off when all the girls respond; get bent. Women are under no more moral requirement to be ‘beauty blind’ than men. We are just as entitled to be focused on looks as men are. Take a look at the last 10 or so girls you contacted on these sites before you start throwing stones. Was every single one of them more attractive than average? Then you’re a hypocrite when you complain.
Oh, and I don’t care if you think you’re an 8 out of 10. Apparently, all the girls you’re messaging disagree. You might want to recalibrate that number you’re assigning yourself. To give you some perspective, I have made yet another awesome chart.
Levels of Attractiveness
Yet another awesome chart brought to you by Essa Alroc
Using the scientific methods of measuring facial symmetry, skin tone, skin clarity, height, build and who I am most likely to masturbate to when I’m not thinking about giant piles of money, I think I’ve made a clear and concise list that anyone can use. So dude, when you’re running around saying that you’re an 8, what you’re really saying is that you are as handsome as Blair Underwood.
No, come on, look again. Really?
Because I tell you what, if you’re marching around, looking like Blair Underwood, you have no need for online dating. Women everywhere will be tossing their panties at you out of moving cars.
When I decide to pick up a guy, you know what I do? I approach the hottest guy in the club. It doesn’t matter that he’s a 10 and I’m a sober 6, drunk 7. I am being honest with myself when I do the numbers. Yes, I am conventionally pretty with a nice figure. That makes me slightly better than average. It does not mean that I could compete with Mila Kunis in a beauty pageant and win.
But it doesn’t mean I am somehow required by law to only try to pick up dudes that are also 6’s. I can go after a 10 if I want to. If he shoots me down, I move on to the next guy.
What I don’t do is go online and bitch that all guys are superficial assholes and fuck around with people on dating sites to prove my genius hypothesis. I wasn’t attractive enough for one dude. Big fucking deal. I’m not being a superficial bitch. I’m going after the guy who meets my current needs.
I.e. I need to have an orgasm and the guy who gives it to me needs to be handsome. The handsomer, the better.
A guy who bitches that women all flock after guys with big muscles is about as stupid as a person who complains that all the scholarships at MIT go to mathematical geniuses who got 2100 on the SATs. Um, duh.
Do you know why really attractive people are considered really attractive? Give you a hint; the answer is in the question. Because people are attracted to them, and they approach these attractive people due to that attraction. So, if you get approached by a lot of people, that means you are attractive.
Is does not mean that everyone who doesn’t approach you is a superficial asshole. They’re just not attracted to you. Which, based on my scientific research, would indicate you are not attractive.
Now that my friends, if a fucking hypothesis.*
*well, not really. But at least I made a chart.
I wrote this comment in response to one of the misogynistic assholes who frequent my site. Since I wrote it, that comment has stuck with me constantly. I can’t get it out of my head.
“Patriarchies are dead for a reason.”
That’s right people, I am such a fucking narcissist that I just quoted myself.
I’ve never considered myself a ‘feminist’. There’s really nothing that annoys me more than women bitching about stupid shit like how ‘policemen’ should be called ‘police officers’ or something like that. I hate arguments about semantics because arguments about gender neutral language distract us all from real issues.
I.e. while we’re all arguing about how ‘firemen’ should be called ‘fire fighters’ Capitol hill takes away more constitutional rights. We, like dumb sheep, never even notice. Because we’re busy arguing about gender lines.
I’m not a feminist. I’m an individualist (and possibly a mid level anarchist). However, I agree with the feminists on one thing.
Patriarchies must die.
In case you didn’t know, a patriarchy is a traditional caste system where men are in control and where women are subservient helpers. Your average ‘Donna Reed” family, with a mom who stays home and has babies, while a man tells everyone what to do, is a patriarchy.
I actually came from a patriarchy style family, with a dad who worked as a forestry worker when they were still called lumberjacks, and a mother who focused all her time and attention on her kids. I always felt like my mom got the short end of the stick, because she worked and took care of us, while my dad just worked, came home and did his own thing. My parents divorced when I was in my early 20’s.
I still talk to my mom every day, but I haven’t talked to my father in years. Why? Patriarchies. As far as my dad was concerned, his job was finished when I turned 18. He’d done his duty. He’d had two children, a boy and a girl. He’d provided for them until they were adults but he had no emotional attachment to those kids.
As far as my mother was concerned, she’d grown attached to my brother and I. As a result, she still makes a point of talking to us every single day. Those phone calls are the highlight of my day and I always feel like I could tell my mother anything.
I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t even know my middle name.
I have my dad’s last name. My mom did all the work, but in the history books, my dad will get all the credit. That’s why when my son was born, I gave him my last name. Strike a point for feminism on that one, woman can carry on the family name.
My fucked up family history aside, there is another reason that I think patriarchies need to be done away with and it is much more clinical. Population control.
Back in the middle ages, women would get married as soon as they had their first periods and start having babies right away. This was due to the infant mortality rate. Very few children ever saw adulthood, so the woman would have as many as possible to ensure they would have at least one heir. A woman might have 10 babies in her fertile years, but only see one survive to reach the age of 20.
As time went on, and medicine improved, women having babies so young became socially unacceptable. They started waiting until they were 18 or 19. Infant mortality rates improved. New diseases, like polio or malaria, started cutting down people in their teens or 20’s, when it was too late for the mother to birth more children. These diseases also caused infertility in a large number of men. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.
Then, our scientists developed inoculations. In case you want to look it up, the baby boom happened after that. Children, millions of children, who would grow up to be millions of healthy adults, who would use up the worlds resources, came along.
And the universe decided that it must be balanced. Enter HIV.
In the 70’s and early 80’s, HIV came along, making people less likely to engage in promiscuous, unprotected sex. It was the first STD that was actually scary enough to stop people from screwing. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.
Look up the statistics on Generation X. We were the generation born after people became fully aware of AIDS and we are the smallest generation in existence.
Gen X reached adulthood, but they were having a good time. They were enjoying the Seattle music scene and working on their college educations. They put off having babies until they were older but they still managed to have them. Advances in AIDS prevention made them more comfortable with having unprotected sex and they started having babies in their late 20’s and early 30’s. Difficulty conceiving resulted in fertility treatments that made multiple child births far more likely. The population exploded again.
Generation Y popped up and they were as big as the baby boomer generation. Scientific advances allowed their children to be born healthy. Even a mother with AIDS could give birth to a child without AIDS. Immunizations kept them from dying from early childhood diseases and regular advances in medicine kept them from dying from preventable diseases that came along when they were capable of having children of their own.
But the universe must have its balance. Instead of knocking us all down with horrible diseases, the universe decided to be cool this time around.
Generation Y girls no longer focused on having babies and supporting a family like their mothers did. Instead, they developed ambitions that didn’t include home and family. They learned how to develop dreams outside of being someone’s baby machine. When the Gen Y girls do decide to have kids, they will do it because they want to, not because that is what is expected of them. Instead of having 4 or 5 children, they will have 1 or 2.
And the universe will have its balance.
Population control is a necessary evil of the universe. When the planet couldn’t stop us with famine or disease, it found another way. It stopped us with reason and ambition. Men always had ambition, in an attempt to support their families. But now women have ambition too. They have dreams outside of being a mother. They focus on their careers and put their plans for families on hold.
And the universe gets its balance back.
The universe will always have its balance. It will never allow us to birth more people than its resources can support. When it couldn’t cut us all down with disease, it reasoned with us. It asked us to start seriously considering the decision to have children, rather than popping them out because that was what was expected of us.
Personally, I want to get along with the universe and I want to play by its rules. I don’t want to see half the world’s population die based on a virus the universe made up to keep our numbers down. Instead, I want to see people use reason to keep those numbers down.
Patriarchies are dead for that reason. They did not focus on individual satisfaction. They focused on a person’s ability to breed out a family. Unfortunately that caused way too many people to be born. The death of the patriarchy gave women their power back. They started deciding what to do with their bodies and they started deciding to not be baby makers just because tradition told them to.
So people out there, focus on your own satisfaction. Do not focus on how you’re biologically supposed to reproduce, because the universe doesn’t want you to do that. It’s giving us a chance here. It’s telling us “I will have my balance’ but it’s also giving us the opportunity to handle that population control ourselves. It’s never done that for us before; respect that.
Because one way or another, the universe will have its balance. If patriarchies had to die to keep it, instead of the majority of the world’s population, I’m totally cool with that.
The universe is watching and it is keeping count. Simply stated, think before you breed. Every last one of our lives may depend on it.
I love the internet. I loved it the first day we got it in our house, in 1992, when my dad hooked up the signal and I listened to that weird, screeching ‘dial-up connecting’ sound through our phone line.
I loved the internet the first time I signed into a chat room run by Yahoo and got into a fight with someone twice my age.
I loved the internet when I realized that I wanted to learn where Jell-O came from and was able to find the entire story in just a few minutes. (Very interesting, by the way. Google it)
I loved the internet when I learned how to write my first virus in notepad (endless folders) and that I could download the answer book to my advanced chemistry class in college.
The internet and I grew up together. We learned things about the world and things about ourselves together. The internet was my first love.
And like a relationship with a high school sweetheart, now is the time to tell the internet about a few things it does to annoy me.
Passwords, Passwords, Passwords
Security password? Why the hell do I need a security password. I already have a password. The password is designed so my forgetful ass can remember it. Now, to get into any one of my bank accounts, I’m required to remember details like my mothers maiden name, the color of my first car and the name of my first grade teacher. I mean Jesus, how much verification do we really need?
Look, Bank of America, it’s my friggen checking account, not the US mint. If some clever internet hacker wants to waste their time breaking in, so they can steal the $1.45 available balance, then more power to them. Requiring me to submit 10 different security answers to access that amount is about as idiotic as someone who rents a safety deposit box for their Beanie Baby collection.
Inspirational Internet Memes
The following scenario has never happened in the history of time.
Arnold gets home from a rough day at the office. He is a cubicle worker who has worked the past 20 years for a company he hates. Today, his boss made a huge mistake, but blamed Arnold. As a result, Arnold lost his job. He started working right after high school, and does not have the transferable skills to get him a another job in the same pay bracket. His wife recently left him for his brother, so he has no one to lean on. Arnold has very few friends, a bleeding ulcer and a serious case of depression.
Arnold decides tonight is the night he ends it all. Before he does, he notices a new notification in his email. It’s from Facebook. This surprises him, as he only has 12 Facebook friends and 10 of them are Nigerian scam artists. Hmm, one of his real friends posted something on his page.
Suddenly, Arnold sees the light. All the burdens are lifted off his shoulders thanks to a form letter, sappy, inspirational paragraph written by a person he has never met. Arnold decides not to commit suicide.
His life has been saved thanks to chain mail.
Look, whenever someone posts one of these on my page, I immediately respond with a ‘defriend’. People who find themselves emotionally swayed by stupid internet memes are the reason drain cleaner comes with the warning ‘do not drink’. If you’re so damn impressionable that you can be convinced by clichéd platitudes, super-imposed over a beach you’ll probably never visit, it’s only a matter of time before you join a cult. Why don’t you get a jump on that instead and get off my page.
Just to prove my point, if I every decide to kill myself, I will slit my wrists with a shank make out of a bunch of rolled up inspirational memes.
Spammers who don’t even try
I hate spam as much as the next girl, but what I hate even more is spam from someone who doesn’t even make an effort.
A while back, I started receiving spam that actually insulted my page and called me a whiny idiot. I nearly mistook it for real hate mail and responded. Then, I got the same massage on a bunch of other websites that I manage and I realized I was dealing with one hell of a clever spammer. Whoever sent the email knew that I would immediately think the worst, which was I was getting more hate mail. I nearly took up the gauntlet and started a fight. A fight that would have simply wound up flooding my page with spam. While I hate that guy for being a spammer, I had to be a little impressed.
However, 700 random letters with 15 back links? It’s like they’re not even trying anymore. Look spammers, take a page out of email@example.com’s book . Be a little clever. Try a little harder. I’ll still block your ass, but at least I’ll do it with a smidgen of respect.
About 40% of the blogs you see in the world are a result of one thing. A fledgling author trying to peddle their books. There is nothing wrong with that. After all, if you want people to pay to read what you write, it doesn’t hurt to offer a free sample. In fact, this page started out as one of those. It was supposed to be a marketing site for my books. Then, I got bored, drunk, forgot to take my meds, and my page turned into the ramblings of a madwoman. But I couldn’t stop writing, I had to keep going. Why? Because I’m a writer and once I got started, I realized I couldn’t stop.
I write because I can’t not write. When I’m writing a blog post, around 4 sentences in, it just starts writing itself. The same goes for the stories I write. I was born to write. I was not born to interact.
The self publishing craze has created a new breed of writer. They’re not real writers. They’re “I’m going to write some shitty twilight rip-offs and get super rich’ writers. Then, to get publicity to their shitty book, they write a bunch of blogs about writing, and invite people to interact on their pages. If they’re really obnoxious, they’ll try to interact on your page, by leaving a comment with twelve links to their page in it. Or, they’ll all end their post with a question and an invitation to discuss it in the comments, to increase interaction.
Here’s the thing. I don’t suck at marketing in spite of the fact that I’m a writer, I suck at marketing because I am a writer. I’m good at writing things, but I blow at dealing with people. The majority of the time I’m commenting, I’m not interacting. I’m arguing with someone and calling them a douchebag.
My ‘interaction’ has alienated more fans than it has gained. I regret nothing.
And that, my friends, is genuine interaction. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve made some great friends online, but we don’t ‘interact’. We talk. I care about what they have to say and they care about what I have to say. At no time does marketing enter the equation. In fact, I’m pretty sure most of my frequent commenters have never even cracked the spine on one of my novels…and I have no problem with that. Because they’re not my audience, they’re my friends.
So I don’t ask them generic questions and ignore their replies when they respond. Instead, I state my opinion and let them share theirs. At this point, I’m not ‘interacting’. I’m having a conversation with a friend. For me, it’s no longer about marketing. It’s about the fact that there is one more person out there who will be sad when I die.
Interacters are the opposite. They don’t care about the people they talk to. Instead, they’re hoping for more site hits and potential readers for their shitty Twilight rip-offs. I learned in the first few days of blogging that it is not about gaining an audience. It’s about writing. Regardless of what platform you choose to do it on, if you’re a writer, you won’t be able to stop. You don’t care about comments or audiences. When people respond, you respond to them. You try to be nice.
Unless those other people are douche bags. Then, it’s about hunting them down using their IP address and to harass them endlessly.
So I live the majority of my life on the internet. Well, I’ll tell you, I love the internet. It makes me a living, it’s gained me fans and it’s given me an outlet. Otherwise, I would have just been organizing bum fights or beating hookers to death. For every douche that tells me I have no life because I blog, I ask “Have you ever put your hand inside a volcano? Have you ever outrun a bull at Pamplona? Have you ever dropped peyote at Burning Man?” No? Well then, you can’t blog. You can’t blog because you haven’t lived.
Every writer knows that rule number one to writing is having a story to tell. And how the hell can you have a story to tell unless you’ve lived one first?
I will never be good at marketing. I will never be good with people. But I will always be good on the internet, because I know how people work and I understand technology. And in a world like ours, that makes me a queen.
We are living in a digital world people. I’m not on the internet because I don’t have a life. I’m on the internet because that is where life is right now. And the internet moves pretty friggen fast.
If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
I recently got a comment on an article I wrote called “So You Have a Penis…Then I don’t Care About Your Abortion”. It was from a man named Al and he made a comment that I think is extremely valid and bears further looking into. To start off, he agreed with me on my stance. Then he said this;
“A woman controls her body, but she doesn’t control the consequences of that choice for other people.”
I could not have agreed with him more.
Here’s the thing. When it comes to parental responsibilities in this country, men get kind of fucked over. If a man accidentally gets a woman pregnant, they generally take a back seat. If the woman decides to have an abortion, even if the man doesn’t want her to, he has almost no legal recourse to prevent that.
I’m completely ok with that, by the way. No woman should be forced to act as a incubator when she doesn’t want to have a baby.
If a woman decides to give the baby up for adoption, he can generally dispute it. The process takes months, sometimes even years if the woman doesn’t want to participate. Regardless, if he fights hard enough, he might get custody of the baby.
But what if he doesn’t want the baby?
I’m going to delve into a subject that I rarely delve into tonight. The subject of my babies daddy.
My son’s father is a handsome man. He’s relatively smart, though I do frequently wonder if he was born without the common sense gene. He is irresponsible and self absorbed. He is also funny and charming. Those were the reasons that I fell half in love with him.
But those are also the reasons he’s no good at being a dad.
Me and J used to be a lot alike. We liked to party. We liked to spend money we didn’t have. We liked to buy stupid things like clothes and shoes. We were a match made in heaven. He didn’t mind that I was almost constantly cheating on him, and I didn’t mind that he was probably doing the same thing. He was the ‘pass the time’ guy. He was not the guy you bring home to mom.
Then I got pregnant. The events of the conception are blurry. I was irresponsible and he was irresponsible. We both held a 50/50 share of the accident that followed. I’m not going to sit here and act like some virgin saint who got tricked into getting knocked up by some evil man.
To be fair, if I was going to name my son after the man responsible for his birth, I wouldn’t name him J. I’d name him Captain Morgan. J was just as messed up as I was that night, so it’s not fair at all to blame him alone. It was both of us.
But then I made the decision to have the baby.
Here’s where it gets unfair. J didn’t want to be a dad. He had no interest in being a dad. He couldn’t afford kids and he didn’t want a baby. He wanted to keep being wild and crazy.
When I got pregnant, I adjusted my priorities. I stopped taking x and going to raves in empty warehouses (hey, it was the 90’s). I gave up my cigar habit and started doing crosswords instead.
But J didn’t change. Why would he? He wasn’t pregnant. As far as he was concerned, he was still a hot young guy on the make. And he didn’t want to be anyone’s father.
But he never had the choice to opt out.
Once I got pregnant and decided to have the baby, all J’s decisions were gone. He had to do whatever I decided to do. He was forced into the roll of father when he never wanted to be one.
Because the military told us to, we got a child support order issued. J couldn’t afford it but he signed it anyway.
He met my son once, when he was six weeks old. He wasn’t interested. I could tell, just by the way he held him. Even on meeting his son, he still had no interest in him.
It’s been about three years since I heard from him. The last time I spoke to J, he asked me for money. I told him to fuck off and spent the night fuming over what a shitty father he was.
Then, one day, clarity struck. Who the fuck was I to tell him he needed to be a father? Maybe being a parent just wasn’t something built into his DNA. As Al so eloquently put it “a woman controls her body, but she doesn’t control the consequences of that choice for other people”.
I chose to be a mother, but J never chose to be a father. Fatherhood was something that he had thrust upon him.
And maybe, just maybe, he should have had the option of opting out.
Deciding to have my son was the best decision I ever made. My little boy makes every day worth it and every time he flips off a bus driver or stays up late hacking an internet server so he can get a new release of GTA early, I beam with pride.
But J doesn’t feel that way. And to be 100% honest, he’s not required to feel that way. Fatherhood isn’t his bag. It doesn’t mean he’s a terrible person. It just means that he’s not responsible enough to take care of another person.
I used to be bitter. I used to fume with fury and try to think of ways to torture him at night. Then, one day, that blessed clarity came. You can’t force someone to love you and you can’t force someone to love something else. It wasn’t fair that he should have fatherhood thrust upon him when he didn’t want it. You can’t make someone want to be a parent. Either they have it in them or they don’t.
It bothers me that if I die in a car accident or something, J will immediately get custody. It bothers me because my son doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know his family. If anything were to happen to me, I’d want my mom to have custody, because my mom is who my boy knows and loves.
And I wish J had the opportunity to opt out.
Do I wish anything good for J? Fuck no. Would I give him a red god damn cent if he was starving in the streets? Not a chance. Do I think that he had some kind of legal obligation to support me because he got me pregnant? Absolutely not.
Because you can’t control the way someone acts. You can only control the way that you react to those reactions. I chose to be a mother, but J didn’t choose to be a father.
I think I get child support. I wouldn’t really know. It goes into a separate account that I lost the card to years ago. The balance might be 5 cents. The balance might be $20,000. Who the fuck cares? As far as I’m concerned, my boy came from me. His disinterested father was incidental to the process.
Some people don’t care about leaving a legacy. They don’t want to have kids. When those people are men, they aren’t really given a choice. That’s not fair. If a man doesn’t want to be a father, he should be able to opt out with no legal or financial repercussions.
Maybe, if men were giving the opportunity to opt out, we’d have less idiot chicks out there trying to get pregnant to keep their man. We’d have less idiots jumping on NBA stars with the hope of riding their illegitimate child to fortune. We’d have less women like me, panicked about the idea of leaving my son to be cared for by someone who doesn’t love him.
I don’t think opting out would make men more promiscuous. Instead, I think it would make them more analytical about whether they were ready to be parents. Regardless of that fact, it would probably stop a hell of a lot of trashy moms from getting knocked up for the monthly check.
Regardless, if men could opt out, J would have opted out. Then, I wouldn’t stay awake at night wondering what would happen to my kid if I died.
I’ve tried online dating in the past. I’ve never had any success and I blame that on the fact that I’m a writer…as well as a judgmental bitch. I am fully aware that there are many smart people out there who can’t write a coherent sentence to save their lives. At the same time, as soon as I read an incoherent sentence from a half assed email, I write a dude off entirely.
When the guy can write in full sentences, I head on over to their profile page to seek if it was a fluke. Whenever it’s not, and I read everything their looking for, I shut it down because I know that I’m nothing close to what they are looking for. Let me give you a few tidbits from some of the guy’s who have messaged me;
I’m looking for a girl who’s interested in getting into the outdoors a bit, camping, canoeing, rock climbing
I love anything outdoors, I call it my church.
I love the outdoors. … I don’t want a gym rat but you at least have to like hiking trail riding, some kind of outdoors activities
As an accomplished outdoors-man, I can literally survive in the wild with very few items
You should contact me if you love the outdoors
Yeah, because my idea of fun is traipsing through a Florida swamp in 105 degree weather, praying that the kinds of mosquitoes biting me aren’t the kind that carry malaria. With all these outdoorsy guys out there, I would assume that the Everglades are just plain filled with men living off the land, hiking, fishing, canoeing and participating in hand to hand combat with alligators.
They’re not, by the way. They’re filled with Ukrainian dudes in linen suits dumping bodies in the dead of the night.
I only know a very small group of people who are really into the outdoors. In fact, they’re so fucking outdoorsy, they spend all their time outdoors. They’re called homeless people and I pay rent every month to avoid being like them.
When I go to a man’s profile, and I see 11 paragraphs about how a guy is looking for a girl who loves the great outdoors, hiking, fishing, camping, etc., all I can think is “doesn’t sound to me like you’re looking for a girlfriend. Actually, it sounds to me like you’re looking for a lumberjack.”
I also love the fact that very few of these great outdoors lovers see any irony in the fact that they’re online dating. If they’re so damn outdoorsy, shouldn’t they be outside, living off the land and looking for their ideal mate squatting in a bush after she finishes off a hefty dinner of raw squirrel?
Half the time, I think these outdoorsy profiles are just a smoke screen to throw off gold diggers and high maintenance chicks. Regardless, I’m not answering because I believe in brutal honesty. And when a guy asks me if I enjoy camping, I’m forced to respond that sleeping outside on the ground is my idea of hell.
And I don’t really care if that makes me high maintenance. I guess I just wasn’t the lumberjack they were looking for.