Dating Advice for the Undateable

If you’re like me, then you’re probably 100% undatable. There’s lots of reasons for being undateable. You could be really ambitious, really busy, or possibly a serial killer with a penchant for killing prostitutes. It doesn’t matter. No judgement here. We all have our vices.

Anyway, it comes to mind that the undateable just don’t have a lot of advice aimed at them. Sure, there’s plenty of advice for men, or advice for women out there, advice for divorced, advice for lesbians, gays, jeez, there’s even advice for people who like to dress up as teddy bears and do it.

But there’s no dating advice for the hopelessly updatable, like me. At least there wasn’t, until now.

#1. Respond to texts.

If you’re like me, every time you get a text from someone, you groan. You’re not big into texting, maybe because you can’t spell, maybe like me you have giant clumsy sausage fingers. Whatever, you need to start responding.

Let me introduce you to your new best friend. Autofill. Those are the little words that come up above your keyboard and I now use only those words I’m given to write messages. It saves a lot of time. Sometimes it works, sometimes, you just gotta go with what it gives you.

funny autocorrect message

So yeah, doesn’t always work, but I’m sure he’ll figure it out…actually, now that I think about it, that probably sounds like a euphemism for making porn.

#2. Online dating is not your friend when you’ve been drinking.

Sure, it starts off, you have a nice glow about you, and you’re charmingly sipping your wine as you flirt with handsome strangers. Then, about 3 hours in, you’ve downed a bottle, started pounding beers and you’re sweating like an angry wildebeest as you get increasingly bitter. You are now a minefield ready to explode. Sure enough, the next a-hole who sends you another message with just the word ‘hi’ is getting told off. The downward spiral of online fighting with strangers has begun.

I’m a big proponent of a company figuring out how to add breathalyzers to laptops in order to prevent the wi-fi from connecting if you’re above the legal limit. Same with phones. The person who figures that out is gonna be a fucking millionaire.

The best online advice I can give when dating is stay sober…or at the very most mildly buzzed.

#3. Learn online dating diplomacy.

In a perfect world, we would all be able to say whatever we want and have people get our jokes, but sometimes strangers aren’t like that. They’re all sensitive and shit. You have to watch your sarcasm, even if the person just gave you the perfect set up. This, for example, is wrong.

bad facebook message

Look, I couldn’t resist a setup that good, but I do actually know the guy. It’s not like that was our first message.  So learn diplomacy with your messages and occasionally resist the urge to go with the joke. It helps alot.

I have the benefit of knowing I’m undatable, so I can tell you what to avoid. I know myself well enough to know where I screw up and those screwups also involve getting loaded and removing my verbal filter. Knowing that I’m undateble makes it easy to come up with a solution.

Mine? Switch to weed and get addicted to Spanish Telenovelas. My current fave is La Reina del Sur. My only complaint is that they always seem to be playing Mariachi music, but that could just be my racist white person brain.

Oh yeah, being racist also makes you undateable…unless you find one of those kkk love connection websites (like

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Now back the fuck off.


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

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

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

My Life Is A Never Ending Sex Romp

If only my real life was as exciting as my literary one.


I recently picked up a job writing sex blurbs for a hot new dating site. This is to supplement my income while my porn sales kick up. With any luck, by the end of this year, I will no longer be Essa Alroc, freelance writer and novelist.

I’ll just be Essa Alroc, writer of kicky spank porn.

What am I looking at in this picture? It’s either a unicorn or a dude who knows what he’s doing in bed. Both are equally plausible.


But it occurs to me that my entire life is fueled by sex right now. My books sell because people are horny. The guys at the dating site need me to write for them because people are horny. You’d think with all of this horniness, I’d be getting more ass than a toilet seat, right?


As you all know, I am a fan of the one night stand. This is because I suffer from a magic disorder where I lose all interest in a person once I’ve slept with them. Apparently, the antibodies in my immune system view oxytocin cells on the same level as Ebola.

Meaning they terminate those motherfuckers with extreme prejudice.

Now, in the past, this has worked for me. I’m like a sex camel. I can get laid once and then live off the glow for an entire season. This saves me the trouble of having to talk to anyone, change out of sweatpants or leave the house regularly. I don’t like complications and other people in my life are complications.   I might have some form of sexual aspergers. Regardless, it was working out pretty nicely in the sexual universe of Essa Alroc

But then some motherfucker killed my mojo. We’re going to call him “the sleep strangler.”

I met the sleep strangler at a Cuban club, because I have a thing for guys who have a thing for big asses. He was a sizzling hot Latin, a good foot taller than me, and he had giant hands. All pluses.

Then I got him back to his hotel room, and everything went to minus-ville. First off, he was a passive guy, the kind of guy who needs your permission to do everything and expects the chick to do all the work in bed. That would be all well and good if I was fat, or ugly, or looking for a relationship, but I’m not.

I’m a chick who knows what I want and what I want is for you to tell me what to do. Slap my ass, pull my hair, all of that fun stuff. Treat me like I’m the chick. Because when you put me in charge, it makes me feel like the dude. I don’t want to be the dude. It’s why I grew this lovely vagina all those 34 years ago.

So already, I was disappointed by the sleep strangler. That would have been all well and good if we’d just left it at bad sex. God knows I’ve had plenty of bad sex…

But it didn’t end there, because the sleep strangler was a cuddler.

Look, I know I don’t sound like it, but I can be cuddly. A few minutes of snuggling, laying together on the couch, even spooning, I’ve been known to tolerate, and even enjoy these activities.

What I don’t enjoy is when you cling onto me like a sweaty Irishman clinging onto the last life preserver on the god damn Titanic.

This is how my lady boner felt

This is how my lady boner felt

No joke, this dude was wrapped around me like the string on a Christmas ham, his face pressed right into my neck, as he snored like he had a case of terminal sleep apnea.

No matter where I rolled, he followed. No matter how many times I jiggled him, he just kept snoring. I even got up and went to the other bed (yeah, he had a double bed room. I’m so classy) and he fucking followed me!

And I was like “where was all this aggressive energy when we were actually screwing?”

By 5 am, I felt like my old bear, Vanilla. Yeah, assholes, I have a teddy bear. I’ve had him (he’s clearly a boy. A girl just knows these things) since I was eight. At night, I would squeeze that bear like my life depended on it. I’d squish him with all my might and when I woke up in the morning, he was right there next to me, wrapped in my kung fu grip, unable to escape.

That is exactly how the sleep strangler made me feel, hence the name ‘sleep strangler.”

The next morning, it was even worse. We were in one of those fancy resorts in the middle of nowhere, and there was no way for me to get home without him driving me. All I really wanted to do was leave a fake name and disappear, before taking a 9000 degree shower.

But the sleep strangler had other ideas.

He wanted to talk. He wanted to putter around his room, put his hair gel in, shave, shower, tell me about his family, go out for coffee. The whole time I was thinking “why the fuck didn’t I get picked up by a serial killer instead? At least that dude would have been done already.”

Note to serial killers: you want to torture me, no need to shove needles under my fingernails or chop off my limbs…just make me listen to a long, confusing drawn out story about why your boss at work is an idiot. You won’t even have to kill me. I’ll kill myself just to avoid that again.

Finally, hung-over Essa got a reprieve. The sleep strangler drove her back to her car. But escape would not come easily. No, the sleep strangler wanted her number.

I was fully prepared to give a fake number but again, the sleep strangler outsmarted me. He snatched my phone and sent himself a message from it, thereby giving himself a verified phone number.

So I went full black out mode when he texted me.

Don’t tell me I should have just let him down gently, because that is what full black out mode is! A one night stand is supposed to be a one night stand. We both know the score. If I don’t feel a connection with you, especially when you gave me sub par sex before trying to absorb me into your god damn body like a boa constrictor, I am fully entitled to pull the ninja breakup and just disappear.


This? This would have been kind....

This? This would have been kind….

But sleep strangler doesn’t think so, because last week, nearly one and a half years after our horrible, horrible night together, I got yet another text from him, complaining that he ‘felt used.”

So finally I responded, “You couldn’t have been used. That would indicate you actually did some fucking work.”

To this day, every potential hookup I see in a club, as our eyes meet and we both know exactly what we want to do, as we feel the initial glow of attraction, there is a small niggling thought at the back of my mind that keeps me from closing the deal.

Could this be another sleep strangler? Could I be dealing with yet another hot guy who thinks he can give nothing in the bedroom, because ‘all chicks want relationships’ and we’re supposed to do all the work to impress them? Do guys really think this? That chicks are so desperate for a dude that they’ll tolerate really bad sex, for a night of over the top cuddling and regular obnoxious texts filled with really, really annoying emoticons?

That niggling thought has so depressed me that I’ve elected to go from “one night only girl” to “my vibrator keeps me from being lonely girl.”

But this has had an alternate side effect that has made me a lot of money. All that pent up sexual frustration? That goes right back into my books. All the stuff I wish guys would really do? Right back into my books. Why deal with a boring beta male when I can write myself my own hot alpha male?

It’s made to order sex and I never have to deal with a potential sleep strangler because of that. So yeah, my life is a never ending sex romp, because fantasy kicks reality’s ass ever single time.








“But I’m Such a Nice Guy!!!”

Every now and then I get a message from a dude from my past, who I was friends with, but never romantically interested in.


These messages all take on the same theme. First, they start out by asking how I’m doing. Then, they move on to dragging up the past. This dragging up the past usually includes a confession about some secret crush they harbored for years, but never had the ability to act on.

Then it turns accusatory. Along the lines of ‘I always wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I knew you only dated assholes and I never thought you’d go for me.”

First, guys who do this, stop calling the dudes I used to date assholes. Yes, some of them were jerks, but many of them were perfectly nice guys with whom things just didn’t work out. These things happen and I don’t see the reason to pigeonhole them into the whole ‘asshole’ category. That category is reserved for actual assholes, like the guy who slapped me around or the asshole who’s behind on his child support.

Stop claiming that ‘girls only want assholes’ because we don’t go for your passive aggressive shtick. I’m so sorry that you spent years pretending to be my friend in some half-hearted attempt to get into my pants. Life must have been so incredibly rough for you…Seriously, those Boko Harem victims must have nothing on your pain.

You are not a nice guy. You’re just telling yourself you are because you feel like a failure. I know, because I’ve been in the same position.

A long time ago, I was crazy about this guy Dave. We went on a few dates but it never amounted to anything serious. Simply stated, Dave didn’t want children. I had one, so he shut any potential relationship we could have had down early on.

Initially, I was a bitch about it. I mean, I was perfect for him. Why couldn’t he ignore his own standards in order to make it work between us? We laughed at the same things and watched the same movies. We argued allot. He was one of the few people that could argue with me in a way that would actually shut me up. Let me tell you people, that is a rare quality for me to find in a man.

But we never really escaped the ‘friend zone’. Over time, I got mad at him. I was irritated with him because he didn’t want me. I started ignoring his phone calls and being a cunt to him.

Then, I remembered my friend Mark.

Mark was one of those guys that I had a ton in common with. We read the same books, watched the same movies and laughed at the same jokes. Despite the fact that Mark was an incredibly attractive Cuban guy, I was never sexually attracted to him. He just wasn’t my type. So when the inevitable came and Mark word vomited his feelings all over me, it made things weird. Mark got resentful because I didn’t feel the same way.

He disappeared from my life, despite the fact that we had a fantastic friendship. He threw that away because he couldn’t get into my pants, even though as he said , he was “such a nice guy”.

Then it occurred to me that Mark wasn’t really a nice guy.

He was a jerk who was only after me because he wanted to screw me. The fact that he wasn’t my type for a romantic relationship was enough of a problem to throw away 2 years of a good friendship. That made me feel utterly useless, like the only reason he laughed at my jokes was because he was trying to sleep with me. Like the only reason we ever hung out was because he wanted me to be a notch on his bed post. I felt used and hurt.

I thought we were friends, but we were only friends until Mark realized I wasn’t going to screw him, because my only apparent value to him was a sexual one.

Then I realized that I was doing the same thing to Dave. Dave was a good dude. We had fun together and he helped me through a lot of hard times. Was it really ok for me to cut him out of my life because he didn’t want to be romantically involved with me?

No, it wasn’t and I wasn’t being a nice girl. So I let that shit go and I accepted our friendship for what it was. A really good friendship. That is rare and there was no way that I was letting him out of my life over my own petty feelings.

To this day, me and Dave are still good friends. We don’t talk as much as we should; we both lead pretty busy lives, but he’s a good dude. He is one of the first people I contact when I’m having problems and he has helped me through more than a few rough patches.

He started seriously dating someone else, and I never even got jealous. By that time, I realized what he’d known all along. We weren’t really right for each other. He’s a type A conservative who has never smoked pot, hates kids and has an affinity for greyhound dogs.

I’m a type B liberal who loves kids, is secretary treasurer of a cannabis reform group and finds greyhounds creepy (their necks are just so skinny).

Once I was able to let of that romantic obsession I was feeling, I found true platonic love with Dave. I was able to be happy for his new relationships and tell him anything. I talked him through his depression and he talked me through a bipolar summer.

I would have never had that kind of friendship if I’d just decided to cut him out of my life simply because he didn’t want to fuck me.

Our relationship is good because we’re not friends with conditions. We’re not friends until one of us decides that ‘friends’ isn’t enough. Our relationship is good because we accept each other.

Boys, if you’re pissed because some chick that you’ve been passively aggressively seeing doesn’t want to take things to the next level, know this. She’s not the problem. You are.

You are the problem because apparently your entire relationship with that girl was based on manipulation. You weren’t being nice to her because you cared about her. You were being nice to her to see what you could get from her.

That isn’t nice and you are not ‘such a nice guy’. You are a manipulator and that is the polar opposite of being nice.

If you want to be friends with a girl, then do it. But if you’re only being friendly because you hope to get something out of her later, that’s not friendly. In fact, you’re kind of being a passive aggressive pussy.

Not everyone who you’re attracted to will be attracted back. That’s just a fact of life. But if you walk away from people because they don’t want to sleep with you, don’t want to date you, don’t want to have a relationship with you, you are limiting your own horizons. You are choosing your friends based on what they can do for you and not how you feel about them.

And you are not ‘such a nice guy.”









10 Sure Signs You’re Going to Be Together Forever

I see stupid articles pop up on Twitter and Facebook all the time. “Sure signs that he’s into you” or ‘How to tell if your relationship is on the right track.”

Then, I go down to the listing and it gives helpful tips like;

  1. He cares about your feelings.
  2. He asks about your friends.
  3. He tells you he misses you, even if you’ve only been apart a few hours.

To me, this list doesn’t sound like the traits of a man; they sound like the traits of an 85-year-old Jewish grandmother. I half expected to see ‘he makes a great Matzo Ball soup’ as number 4.


I know my boyfriend loves me because he made me this when I was sick but told me 'time is the best doctor, Bubbala.'

I know my boyfriend loves me because he made me this when I was sick but told me ‘time is the best doctor, Bubbala.’

The problem with the articles (besides the fact that they describe the ideal man as being a one dimensional caricature with no feelings or desires other than your happiness) is that they don’t really give you any factual evidence that their tips are true.

But I have some tips as well, and I think they might be a bit more spot on.


10 Sure Signs That You’re Friggen Stuck Together


10. Your finances are impossibly intertwined. Are you in your late 50s, married to someone for the past 26 years and living paycheck to paycheck? Yeah, you’re never getting divorced. You’re never getting divorced because you can’t afford it. Instead, lay back with your soul mate, relax and wait for the sweet, sweet grip of death.

9. The life insurance is too good to give up now. They have a $1 million policy with a double indemnity clause, a serious drinking habit and a raging case of diabetes. You’ve already put in 25 years. What’s 10 more when you could retire in style?

8. You’re in an extremely unbalanced codependent relationship. Are you a meth head dating your dealer? A nutjob dating your shrink? A hooker dating your pimp? Congrats. You’ve found your soul mate. If only we could all be so lucky.

7. You have a very unusual sexual fetish and a limited pool of attractive people to pick from. Let’s face facts. If you’re into dressing up as a giant beaver while an overweight man in a wet suit whacks you in the balls with a hammer, you probably don’t have a very large selection in the ‘common interests’ category on Once you find one, hold onto that perv for dear life.

6. You are somehow physically attached to your significant other. Whether it’s some kind of conjoined twin birth defect, radiation accident, or weird human centipede experiment, you’re physically stuck together. I know it’s unlikely, but if we live in a world where someone could think of the movie “The Human Centipede” then we live in a world where someone will try to do it.


5. Your parents said you would never make it. Sure, they said it 20 years ago and you’ve been married to that high school sweetheart for years, but you’re too invested to back down now. The only way your getting divorced is if your parents admit they were wrong first, because you would rather die with someone you hate than live with your judgmental mom spitting out the phrase “I told you so.”

4. YOU ARE BOTH THE KIND OF PEOPLE WHO WRITE IN CAPS LOCK. Sometimes, in the beautiful mysterious nature of life, two idiots fall in love. They might meet while waiting in line at the lotto machine at the store. They might bump hands at a Nickleback concert. They might wind up in the emergency room together after accidentally drinking bleach or wandering into traffic. The fact is, it is part of the cosmic architecture of the universe that idiots are drawn together. It’s god’s way of keeping them from dumbing down the gene pool with the ‘normals’.

3. You’ve only ever met on the internet. Reality just can’t compare with fantasy. Where else but on the internet can a 45-year-old convenience store cashier feel like he has a shot with a 22-year-old millionaire virgin? There is a reason situations like “Tall Hot Blonde” happen and that is human nature. We all want what is unattainable. Hell, that’s the basis of capitalism. As long as you two continue lying, and continue never meeting in person, you will be together forever or at least until one of you gets a virus.

2. You are just perfectly suited. And I don’t mean in a dorky ‘she laughs at all my jokes,’ kind of way. You’re a boy with mommy issues who needs constant validation. She’s a girl with daddy issues who needs a man to beat on. You guys were just plain meant to be.

1.  And the number 1 sure sign you’re going to be together forever? You’re not reading this, because you know that relationship problems can’t be fixed by the advice a lady whose only relationship advice qualification is she can afford to spend $29.99 a year maintaining a blog.

These stupid lists aren’t helping anyone. They’re insulting to men and I’m pretty sure the majority of them are being written by a bitter old cat lady who’s never had a partner inflicted orgasm.

I’m sorry, but no, I don’t thing men should completely change themselves to get with girls. If I wanted to date another chick, I’d go full on gay rather than just bi-curious.

What really gets me going is that the girls who write this shit are the same ones who bitch that there are no good men left. There are no good men left because they’ve limited themselves to a cardboard cutout version of what a man is supposed to be, as opposed to who he really is.

You know how you really know you’re supposed to be together? You just fucking know. Anyone who hasn’t felt that before is shaking their head in confusion, while anyone who has is nodding right along with me. When you feel that feeling, it’s like passing a million little ‘is your partner good for you tests’ all at once. There’s no test you need to take to prove it, or questionnaire you can read to verify it. Everything just clicks into place and you know.

So how do you know if your partner is right for you? You didn’t really feel the need to get a stranger’s opinion on that in the first place.

Time Heals All Wounds…An Experiment in Schadenfreude

Have you ever heard a woman bitch “it’s not fair; women get worse looking with age, while men only get more ‘distinguished’”?

I would like to take this opportunity to call bullshit. Most of my female friends in their 30s and 40s are utterly smoking hot, while most of the men I know are completely falling apart. I myself, at the ripe old age of 33, am far more attractive than I was in high school.


Then…we all make bad choices in high school. Red hair dye was mine

Now...amazing how much hotter I am when I'm actually happy

Now…amazing how much hotter I am when I’m actually happy











But while delightful, that is not what this post is about. Instead, it is about how time, and the complexly karmic nature of the universe, can fix just about any heartbreak.

You’ve probably heard the phrase ‘time heals all wounds’ before and thought that it was yet another platitude that people throw out when they don’t know what else to say. But the fact is, most platitudes come into existence because they are true. There are plenty of fish in the sea. What happens really does happen and time does heal all wounds.

Thanks to gravity and a high carb diet.

Let me explain. If you can believe it, I fell in love in high school. Yes, back then, I had a heart, a ticking biological clock and a fully functional sex drive. I fell in love in that desperate, grasping way that teenage girls do, with a guy who wasn’t even remotely interested in me.

At the time, it was soul destroying. I spent most of my time agonizing about him, complaining to my friends and crying.

God, I must have been really fucking annoying back then.

Nothing aside from a few romps in the back seat of a car ever really happened between me and my high school crush but I obsessed all the same. It was painful, it was hopeless and it was depressing.

It was part of being a teenager.

I left my home town about two weeks after I graduated high school and aside from the occasional week long visit, never went back.  Life went on. It changed. I met other men to obsess about and men who actually got obsessed with me (creepy, yet flattering). I joined the military, had a kid, went to college, built a career, destroyed that career, and built another career.

For 16 years, I never thought about that crush. He went from comprising 90% of my conscious thoughts, to absolutely none of them.

Then, about a week ago, that crush popped up in a friend of mine’s timeline on Facebook.

I saw that name, and I’ll be honest; for a second, my heart skipped a beat. I was back to being that obsessed teenage girl. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t. I clicked on his profile, sure that he’d be successful and just as gorgeous as I remembered. I was ready to get obsessed all over again. Then, his current profile picture filled my screen…

And I snorted so hard, beer came out of my nose. After my coughing fit was done, I smirked, closed down the page and said to myself, ‘what the fuck was I thinking?’

Either I was legally blind at the age of 17, or my high school crush had gotten the shit beat out of him by Father Time. No joke, this dude looked like the paper towel guy ‘Brawny’ …if Brawny went on an all bacon diet and stopped trimming his beard.


About 20 years ago, this guy was all I wanted. Today, he would be yet another creepy fat dude that I avoided eye contact with at the store.

“This has to be an anomaly,” I told myself. “Surely karma doesn’t work that fast?”

So I pulled out my legal pad and I made a list. I didn’t make a list of every guy who’d ever broken my heart. In some cases, the breakup was fully warranted, mutual or necessary. For those guys, I expected no karmic justice because they weren’t at fault. Sometimes, we like someone who doesn’t like us (or the other way around) and we just have to accept that.

No, instead, this list was focused on the guys who had used and abused me or who had dumped me horrifically (like the dude that took me to McDonald’s on Valentine’s Day and dumped me after making me pay for his Value Meal).

Then I started Googling. During those Google searches, I learned one thing. Apparently, I am a super hero; my vagina dispatches karmic justice.


Every guy who’d ever made me feel utterly destroyed and useless had gone through some horrific metamorphosis. They went from being handsome, ambitious toned young men to harry ‘Jabba the Huts’ living in clapboard houses and working menial jobs.


You know that phrase ‘schadenfreude’? In case you haven’t, it means ‘shameful joy’. Well that night, I schadenfreuded multiple times, in multiple positions, and it was fucking fantastic. After I was done, I smoked half a pack of cigarettes and slept better than I’d slept in years.

To the ladies out there, if you’ve had your heart broken, I urge you to try this experiment. Of course, keep a few things in mind.

  • All my worst heartbreaks occurred more than 10 years ago. Something turned off inside me in my early 20s and I really haven’t felt a thing since. I think the ‘ripening’ from karmic justice occurs at about the 10 year mark, so I really wouldn’t recommend looking up the guy who dumped you 3 months ago.
  • Don’t look them up drunk. Nostalgia and alcohol don’t mix. You might start thinking of ‘the good old days’ and forget that you’re talking to a bald fat loser
  • Be fair in your assessment. I only looked up jerks that treated me like shit. I’m sure if I’d looked up some of the dudes that dumped me for a damn good reason, they would be doing quite well and I would just be jealous.

I strongly recommend trying this at least once in your life. No joke people. It will restore your faith in humanity and the universe in general.

It’s Money or Love…But You Don’t Get Both

I think the answer to most people’s ‘meaning of life conundrum’ could be answered with the following question;

What do you think about when you masturbate?

Yes, I know it sounds weird, but I think there are some true psychological benefits there. Think about it. Anyone in the midst of an orgasm is at their absolute most vulnerable moment, both physically and mentally. When you are at your most vulnerable is when you finally realize your true desires.

Of course, you have to read the subtext. Do you dream about multiple partners? Then you are the kind of person who needs mass love and recognition. Do you dream about one person who understands everything about you and whispers sweet nothings into your ear? Then your main desire is the human connection. Are rape fantasies your particular brand of forbidden fruit? Rest assured, you aren’t a sicko. You’re just an overwhelmed person who deep down wants someone to take control for you. There is no such thing as a bad masturbation fantasy.

What’s mine, you might ask? Well, mine takes a bit more of a literal form. See, I get off best when I’m thinking about rolling around in giant piles of money.

So what, I had a little bit of an orgasm when posting this? Stop judging me.

So what, I had a little bit of an orgasm when posting this? Stop judging me.

I grew up poor, without a lot of extra cash rolling around. I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs and ate generic cereal. I never had the ‘new trendy thing’ and I watched black and white TV until I was 14. To me, there is nothing sexier in the world than frivolously spending your money.

“Why didn’t you just marry a rich guy?” This is a question I get a lot. I’ve probably had the opportunity. I could have married some well-to-do guys when I was in my twenties and much better looking. Hell, I’ve had recent offers where some Israeli guy promised me an island. But I’ve always turned them down. Yes, I could have been rich, but the giant pile of money wasn’t the goal.

My dream might sound like surface, materialistic fodder, but deep down, I’m a bit more philosophical than that.

To me, money represents the ultimate freedom. It means that you can decide what you do for a living, rather than working in a cubicle for forty years. It decides where you are allowed to live. Rather than moving to the place where the job market is best, you move to the place that is exciting and fun. When you have money, you are the master of fate and the captain of your own destiny.

When you’re poor, your shitty boat is piloted by your financial adviser.

I would never marry for money, because that is the exact opposite of the kind of freedom I want. When you marry money, you marry someone else’s money. You are expected to behave the way they want you to behave. You are nothing more than a bird in a gilded cage. So no, I will never marry for money. Instead, I will make my own.

I have a theory that is based on my larger ‘balance of the universe’ theory. You can have love, or you can have money. You can not have both. Of course, this doesn’t apply to happily married couples in Kenosha Wisconsin, who live on their retirement benefits of 40k per year.

I’m talking living extreme. I’m talking about having the kind of money where, when your neighborhood association doesn’t like the color of your house, you just buy the neighborhood association. I’m talking Justin Bieber money, where you can cause 20k in damages to your neighbor’s place because you hate them, write a check and walk away. I’m talking the kind of OJ money that gets you out of killing your wife.

That’s the kind of money I want.

You can have epic wealth or epic love. There is no in between. The universe will never allow one person to have the power of both.

I’m totally kosher with the idea of dying alone. As far as I’m concerned, I will never meet my soul mate because science hasn’t advanced enough for me to clone myself. Yeah, money doesn’t keep you warm at night, but money sure as hell pays the heating bills.

To all you idealists out there, soul mates die. But money? Money lasts forever.

I embrace your judgmental comments.