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.
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.
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.
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.
A few days ago, I did a post entitled “This is Why You Don’t have a Boyfriend.” This post struck a chord among many of my readers. This weekend I went out. While I was out, I met an incredibly good looking man.
And the longer he talked, the less good looking he became.
See, his problem was that he had obviously read one of those ‘how to pick up chicks’ books and was working every bit of material he could. Around the 15th magic trick and the 17th time he light-heartedly touched my elbow, I was just about ready to punch him in the throat.
Instead, I took a deep breath and clued him into the following.
#1. You are asking way too many fucking questions.
Are you writing my damn biography? Look, I know that every single book you read about the opposite sex tells you women are vapid, self absorbed creatures who are desperate to tell you every single detail about themselves in the first 15 minutes of knowing you.
Granted, I am incredibly self absorbed, but once we hit question 15 in as many minutes, I decided it was time to start fucking with you to see if you were even paying attention to my answers. I mean Jesus, I told you one of my hobbies was collecting Nazi memorabilia…and you’re Jewish. You didn’t even bat an eyelash.
#2. Ditch the magic tricks.
Yes, I know the guy in the fuzzy hat tells you that chicks love magic, but what he didn’t tell you is that those chicks are usually under 12. No, I’m not impressed with your ability to pull a quarter out of my ear. If my alcoholic, borderline retarded uncle Karl can pull that off, I’m pretty sure anyone can.
#3. Never touch me without my permission again.
Yes, I’ve heard of kenos too. Supposedly, the more you casually touch a woman, the more she becomes used to you touching her and more willing to let you take it further.
Here’s the real deal. We are living in the age of date rape, stalkers and dudes who keep girls locked in their basement for ten years. When you touch me, I automatically assume that you’re testing my skin elasticity for a skin suit. The next time you lay a hand on me, even if you’re caressing my pinky finger, I’m going to donkey punch you.
#5. Buying me drinks does not somehow ‘rent me’ for the night.
I’m not one of those idiot girls who goes bouncing around, demanding that every guy in the bar buy her a shot. I actually have my own money, and more than enough to keep me lightly buzzed. I don’t need you to ply me with alcohol in an attempt to get my inhibitions down. In fact, I’m almost sure I could drink your ass under the table.
Buying me drinks doesn’t somehow obligate me into sleeping with you. If you’re looking for a hooker, I suggest you just cut out the middle man and offer the money directly. Trust me; I am going to charge a hell of a lot more than $5.
#6. Did you really just tear up when talking about your dog?
God, nothing kills my lady boner like man tears. Again, I’m sure those books are telling you that girls love ‘sensitive guys’. Here’s the thing…not all girls do. Especially insensitive ones like myself. Girls are like guys. We all have different desires in our men and there is no one-size-fits-all approach. Sensitivity is not on my list of nonnegotiables and the second that you teared up, my vagina actually sealed itself shut.
#7. Stop following me!
I go outside, there you are. I go upstairs, there you are. I go downstairs, there you are. I go to the bathroom, there you are waiting outside the door. Damn it man, I could have been pooping in there! Do you know how creepy it is to think about you listening to that?
Following me like a tiger stalking a gazelle isn’t going to somehow make me cave in and go home with you. Instead, it’s far more likely that I’m going to call security…or donkey punch you…or both.
Listen, you can’t learn how to pick up girls from books. The only people who have any success from those books are the guys who wrote them. The only reason they’re successful is because they got rich taking all your damn money. Even the ugliest guy becomes much more attractive when he has a 7 figure net worth.
Ditch the books and be yourself. Yeah, some girls won’t like you, but no girls like you right now, because you’re coming off as phony and desperate. And phony, drunk and desperate is no way to go through life.
Occasionally, I do blogs about dating because I believe I have a unique perspective on the general human psyche. This comes from being a silent observer, and a crazy recluse who regularly listens to the people outside her window bitch and moan as they smoke weed.
No judgment people in apartment 241, but you should know that the Febreze isn’t covering up the smell. Move to the 21st century and get a vaporizer for fucks sake.
As I am a sucker for drama, I enjoy eavesdropping on their conversations. One conversation I hear a lot of is from a young lady who I will refer to as ‘Hopeless Hilda”.
Hopeless Hilda has a problem. She wants a boyfriend. I know this because it gets mentioned every twelve seconds, along with the phrase ‘what’s wrong with me?” Her well-meaning friends keep telling her ‘nothing is wrong with you. You’re beautiful. You just haven’t met the right man yet.”
Her friends, while kind, are 100% wrong. I will agree that Hilda is gorgeous. She is after all, a professional model. However, that is just about the only thing that Hopeless Hilda has going for her. So I’m writing this blog post, in the hopes that Hopeless Hilda will take to the internet and stumble upon my blog, so she can become a little less hopeless.
#1 – Never used the phrase ‘All men are (insert slur or generalization)” again.
Before you spit out the phrase ‘All men are assholes” I want you do something. Replace ‘men’ with any ethnic group. For example; “All men are assholes” becomes “All Hispanics are assholes.”
But you wouldn’t say the second one because that’s racist, right? Well, the first one is sexist. Stop being a sexist bitch. It is not an attractive quality. Not all men are assholes. Some men are assholes, as are some women. When you go around bitching about all men, you just look like a bitter hag. When was the last time you saw a headline on Match.com stating ‘desperately seeking bitter hag’?
#2 – Stop over-sharing
Hi Hilda. I’m Essa, the blond girl with the 9 pound dog. Seems weird that I’ve lived underneath you for like two years and you never even knew my name.
You know what else is weird? The fact that you just learned my name, but that I know you were molested when you were five, have an eating disorder, cut yourself when you’re depressed, have an abusive ex and you might be addicted to diet pills.
How do I know all this? Because you say all these things to every single guy you date. I know this, because you share it all, usually while breaking down in tears, right in front of my window.
Weirdly, the guys you say all this shit to never seem to call back, because I never see them again.
Here’s the thing Hilda, you need to work on your first date material. Tears and skeletons in your closet should be saved for when you are actually in a monogamous committed relationship. I know you read a lot of romance novels, and you just want someone to rescue you, but trust me babe, it isn’t gonna happen. If romance novels were real, we’d all be married to handsome billionaires.
#3 – Stop over-complimenting
One compliment is nice. 2 is getting a little weird. 3 reeks of desperation. When you spend a night telling a dude how smart, handsome and strong he is, eventually he starts thinking ‘wow, I could have any chick I want. Screw this bitch; I’m gonna go find a rich heiress.”
Ok, so not entirely accurate, but think of it this way. Have you ever had a guy repeatedly tell you how pretty you were during one date? Was it flattering at first, and then started to wear thin? After a while, didn’t you start to think that you were too good for him? Trust me; he’s thinking the same thing.
Good rule of thumb? Return a compliment with a compliment. No more, no less.
#4 – He doesn’t care about your hair, shoes, makeup, etc.
Save the girl talk for your girlfriends. Just because he compliments your shoes does not mean he needs a 45 minute lecture on why you always buy designer because it pays off in the end, because the leather is stronger and the shoes last longer.
#5 – Getting a boyfriend should not mean getting any boyfriend.
Girl, you have brought some real prizes home. I especially liked the unemployed guy with the neck tattoo, who you gave money to so he could take a cab to Orlando and buy some meth.
I wonder why he never came back.
Oh yeah, because he’s an unemployed meth head. You should be glad he didn’t come back, rather than bitching to your friends that he screwed you and never called again. I know Cosmo tells you that you should be married by now, but you should never base you life on what a magazine says.
Next time you go on a date, do me a favor. Instead of falling all over yourself trying to impress the guy, actually pay attention to what he says. If it talks like a douchebag, walks like a douchebag and acts like a douchebag, it’s a douchebag. Stop trying to fake interest and instead fake food poisoning so you can end the date early.
Hilda, you seem like a nice girl. I’m sure that deep down inside, you don’t think that all guys are assholes. I’m sure deep down inside that you really know there is something wrong with you. In short, life isn’t a romantic comedy. Neurotic, high maintenance girls who complain about men all the time don’t marry Gerard Butler after getting proposed to in a hot air balloon. They die alone and get eaten by their cats.
You don’t need to change who you are. You just need to really consider the words that are coming out of your mouth before you state them. Because the real ugly truth is nobody wants a train wreck.
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.