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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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;
- He cares about your feelings.
- He asks about your friends.
- 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.
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 Match.com. 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.
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.
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 complaining 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 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.
You should base you life on what my blog 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.