I have a bruise on my ass. It’s not a little one. It’s one of those scary “Tupac black” bruises that leaves pasty white people like me wondering if we have leukemia. It’s large and black, and in the shape of Texas.
I have no idea where it came from. Did I mess with Texas? I’ve heard that you just ‘don’t mess with Texas.’ I’d never do that.
…it’s not nice to pick on retards.
(Sorry Alejandro, I just couldn’t let that joke go unsaid. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the least Texan Texan I know.)
Anywho, this mystery has been bothering me all day. Here’s the thing. I’m a bit flakier in real life than I come off online. Like flaky in the “I nearly put wart remover in my eye because I thought it was eye drops” kind of way. Like flaky in the “I found my cell phone in the freezer this morning” kind of way.
So I am no stranger to mystery bruises. I get them all the time. The minor ones I just brush off as general clumsiness, but the major ones always leave me wondering.
Because the major ones always have a story.
The worst one I can remember happened several years ago. It was the day after Saint Patrick’s Day when I woke up with a pain in my foot. It wasn’t a little pain. It was a broiling, bleeding, blistered “holy shit do I have foot cancer?” pain.
And I had no idea how it happened. Try as I might, my drunken, hazy memory would not release the story of this horrible injury. So I simply assumed that it was far too traumatic to remember. Then, I made up my own story.
A bus filled with puppies and orphans was careening towards a cliff. I was the only one around and the only one who could save the day. With only courage and determination as my fortitude I ran towards that damned bus. Using my MacGyver-like skills, I quickly created a system of pullies and ropes (that just happened to be laying around) and lassoed the bus, keeping all of the puppies and orphans from plummeting to their certain deaths.
While this was happening, the rope caught on my foot and I got rope burn.
Satisfied with my story, I went on about my day. I had to wear flip flops, but at least all those puppies and orphans were safe.
Then my friend Mike called.
“How’s your foot?”
I gave a long suffering sigh, having fully convinced myself of my foot martyr status. “It’s ok. I’m just glad no one was hurt.”
“Why would anyone get hurt? I still can’t believe you did that.”
My illusions were about to be destroyed. “What did I do?”
“You said you were so drunk you couldn’t feel your legs. Then, you bet me $5 that I could put my cigarette out on your foot without you screaming.”
“Why the fuck would you agree to that?” I was outraged.
“That’s exactly what you screamed at me when I did it!”
Illusions destroyed, my serious injury that I got while being a selfless angel became a simple drunken bet that I’d lost. I lose a lot of drunken bets.
I imagine my last words will be “Hold my beer. I bet I can do this.”
So I’m not sure I really want to know where this bruise came from. In fact, I know I don’t, because I already know how I got it.
See, there was this busload of puppies and orphans, careening towards a cliff….
I have a theory. I think at any given moment, at least in the state of Florida, you are surrounded by at least ten idiots. From the idiots who can’t handle the lofty task of flipping on a turn signal, to the idiots who’s retirement plan is nothing more than ‘buy lotto tickets,’ we are all swimming in a veritable pool of idiots.
I want to drain the god damn pool.
Today, I got stuck behind what I like to call a “Mr. Nice Guy” in traffic. Traffic was heavy, and Mr. Nice Guy decided to slam on his brakes so he could let not one, not two, but four people in front of him.
I had to wonder, do the idiots that do this realize that while they’re making four dudes happy, they’re also pissing off the 50 fucking people behind them? No joke, while this dude was thinking he’d done his good dead for the day, he had no idea that I was behind him, fantasying about strangling him with the alternator belt that’s about to snap on my car.
Idiots are the reason that bleach comes with the warning ‘do not drink’. Idiots are the reason kids have to wear helmets for everything from rollerblading, to jerking off. Idiots are the reason Nickelback is still touring.
And us smart people, we’re enabling the idiots. We’re the ones who put the warnings on bleach in the first place. We’re the ones who design the helmets these idiot kids wear. We’re the ones that teach these idiots how to use a computer so they can buy those Nickelback tickets. Half the problem is the fact that idiots don’t understand sarcasm, so they don’t know they’re being idiots. Let me give you an example.
The other night, I got an email from a webmaster who wanted me to write some articles for him. But he didn’t want to pay me for these articles. As he pointed out, because he was such an impressive webmaster, the exposure alone would make me as a freelance writer.
The subjects he wanted me to write about? Penny stocks and anal bleaching. Not joking, this really happened. Here’s how I responded.
Dear (name redacted)
Thanks for contacting me about your project. It’s super ironic, because I actually don’t do this for a living. It’s a hobby. See, I actually write articles about penny stocks and anal bleaching just for the fun of it. Just recently, I was forced to shut down my website “Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole”, which was a website for enthusiasts of the ‘pump and dump’ on two different levels. I thought I was going to have to get rid of all the articles I wrote on the subject, then I got your message. What luck!
I figured no one could miss the sarcasm in that, but I vastly underestimated the idiocy of others, because all I got back was a two word message.
I ignored it, thinking the dude was fucking with me. Then today, I got a follow up message.
So are you still interested in working with me?
So I sent another response.
Sorry. I recently died of cancer.
I can only assume that in the next few days, I’ll receive another email offering his condolences for my untimely death. Because I am indeed, surrounded by idiots.
Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go. Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole needs updating.
“Women can’t be funny.”
This is a statement I hear a lot. I’m not sure where it came from, but the earliest instance I know of occurs in a 1695 article written by William Congreve, which states;
“I must confess I have never made an observation of what I apprehend to be true humor in women. Perhaps passions are too powerful in that sex to let humor have its course; or maybe by reason of their natural coldness, humor cannot exert itself to that extravagant degree, which is does in the male sex.”
Now look, based on my review of William Congreve’s body of work, I could make my own assertion and create an article called “People Named William Can’t be Funny” …but I’m not the kind of girl to generalize.
I bring this up tonight because I got yet another email from yet another disgruntled commentator, who is firm in his assertion that Essa Alroc is, in fact, a man. Following his email, I immediately raced to my bathroom, yanked down my pants, and was relieved to find that my vagina was just where I left it.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Just because I’m funny doesn’t mean I have a dick. I assure you all, I really am the smoking hot blonde, with the tiny white dog, in the picture slightly to the right. I don’t avoid posting pictures of myself on this page because I’m trying to hide my Adam’s Apple. I avoid posting them because in every picture, I look exactly like this;
What can I say? I’m not photogenic and something about someone pulling out a camera makes me want to sneeze and fart simultaneously.
I’ve been told my tone is masculine, my subjects are masculine and even, from one flaky ‘chakra counselor’ (how the fuck is that a job title?) that my aura is masculine. I don’t think that’s the case. I think it’s simply the fact that people aren’t yet used to my awesome style.
Look, I’m not one to jump on the feminist bandwagon, but the fact is until very recently, the female gender has been repressed. Our main goal in life wasn’t to impress society. It was to impress a man. Rule of thumb when impressing a man?
YOU don’t try to be funny. You make HIM feel like HE’S funny.
Women having goals outside of marriage and children is a relatively recent occurrence. It wasn’t until the sexual liberation of the 60s that we were even allowed to fuck who we wanted without being ostracized. Even then, our freedom became all about our sexuality. When it came to freedom of opinions, we were nothing more than a bunch of angry dykes who couldn’t get men.
I got lucky. I was born at the tail end of that repression. From early childhood, it was ingrained in me that it’s far more important to be an interesting person than it is to be wife material. I thank having very liberal parents for that. Being wife material is kind of my idea of hell.
To me, wife material = boring as fuck
Yes, I’m a mother. But this isn’t a ‘mom blog’ because I’m defined by more than the ability to shove something the same size and weight as a bowling ball out of my vagina…though I will admit it’s a impressive feat. I don’t make this blog about dating because I don’t date. I haven’t in years. As a single woman with horrible taste in men, I would consider it the absolute height of irresponsibility to bring some man I’ve only known for a few weeks around my child and introduce him as his new daddy. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure my kid would shank him.
He has a bit of an Oedipus complex that I’m sincerely hoping he’ll grow out of.
So no, I don’t stick to ‘female friendly’ topics. This blog isn’t about me dating or me being a mom or about me empowering women. The phrase ‘women’s empowerment’ genuinely makes me throw up a little. This site is here so I can vent about the shit everyone else does to piss me off. The object of my site isn’t to impress anyone. It’s to piss you off, and maybe make you laugh a little.
I’m not a man. I’m not even androgynous. I’m very clearly a woman. I have the tits to prove it and they are fucking fantastic. But this blog isn’t about my fantastic tits (though they are so fantastic, they deserve their own blog). This blog is about my opinions on everything, hence the name “Essa on Everything.”
I’m not a man writing as a woman, or even a woman writing as a woman. I’m a person who writes the things most people are thinking in their heads anyway. If you’re a regular reader, go ahead and count the times that you’ve nodded in agreement over something I’ve said on here. That didn’t happen because I’m a chick. It happened because I’m a smart person who has no fear of hatemail.
The fact is I say what PEOPLE are thinking. I’m able to let the facts of a certain situation swirl around in my head for a bit, before I give a concise, intelligent, and oftentimes hilarious opinion.
I don’t need a pair of testicles to do it. So no people, I’m not a man. I’m just a girl who is a lot smarter than you. It happens and it happens a lot more than you might think.
Deal with it.
I know Kirk Cameron is busy this time of year. After all, he has to save Christmas from all the cross burning Christmas haters who want to wish you a “Happy Holiday” and remind women that their place is in the home (singing shitty Christmas carols and making cookies that look way better than they taste), all while glossing over the fact that many of our traditions come from pre-Christian pagan celebrations of the winter solstice and not everything is about Jesus
Sorry, off track. What I’m trying to say is that even though Kirk Cameron is busy as hell this time of year, he still took time to create a video on his show “Way of the Master” (otherwise known as “Kirk Cameron Can’t Stop Thinking About Gay Sex”). This video explains to all of us how we can talk to gay people about their sinful ways. Then, we can get them on the righteous path to denying an integral part of their personalities so the invisible sky daddy won’t get mad and stop granting their wishes.
I don’t know much about Christianity, but I think I nailed it in a nutshell.
Anyway, with so much on his plate, I decided to jump in and help him out. Maybe you’re Kirk Cameron. Maybe you know Kirk Cameron. Maybe you’re thinking of becoming Kirk Cameron…because it’s totally a choice. Regardless of what it is, today I’m going to teach you how to talk to Kirk Cameron.
The first thing to remember is Kirk Cameron is just like us…only inherently evil and probably going to hell. That’s why when you talk to Kirk Cameron, you should remind him as often as possible that while you love him, he’s going to suffer in the fire pits of torment for all eternity, simply for being Kirk Cameron.
Yes, it’s incredibly unfair that he’s going to hell simply for being born Kirk Cameron, but we all have crosses to bear. For example, I occasionally have a bad hair day. Why did god choose to torment Kirk Cameron so much more than me? I don’t have a good answer, so here is a picture of what I imagine all of Kirk Cameron’s family gatherings to look like, based on my extremely limited understanding of Kirk Cameron.
Why is being Kirk Cameron bad? Simple. Based on this chart I created, it’s clearly obvious that all forms of douchebaggery are related, regardless of the level. Watch as I prove it with shitty graphics.
Now, I know you’re thinking “wait, isn’t douchebaggery something that can be subjective based on your own cultural background, family values and what version (of the 500 available versions) of the douchebag bible you’re reading? Maybe some cultures don’t believe being Kirk Cameron is wrong at all.”
Well, I don’t have a good answer for that, so I’m simply going to say, I love you, but you’re a heathen and you’re probably going to hell. The best way to show someone you love them is to sentence them to eternal damnation for disagreeing with you.
Just remember, regardless of how you feel about Kirk Cameron…know that Mike Seaver would fucking hate that guy.
Recently, I was accused of being a hipster because I was wearing an ironic T-shirt. As the majority of my clothes comes from garage sales, this is a frequent, but unintentional occurrence. Anyway, I am not a hipster. I’m just lazy and unkempt. But for those who are wondering if you are, here is a helpful listing to let you know if you’re a hipster.
You pay $85 for a haircut that makes you look homeless and $120 for pre-torn jeans.
How do I put this politely? Fuck Urban Outfitters. The only reason people shop in those stores is because other people shop at those stores. Be honest people. When was the last time you said, “hey, you know what? I want to pay $54 so I can wear an ugly, vintage inspired sweatshirt of a band that I don’t really listen to?”
You want a modern day version of the Emperors New Clothes? Think Urban Outfitters. No joke, those fuckers are laughing at you.
You wear jeans that have to be zipped with pliers.
I hate the skinny jeans trend. As a curvy girl, I don’t really have the stature to pull them off. To get an idea of what I look like in skinny jeans, think ‘denim sausage wearing flesh colored inner tube’.
The last thing I need is some 24-year-old androgynous dude to look better in jeans than I do (and have smaller hip measurements). As a protest to the skinny jeans movement, I refuse to wear pants until it’s over.
Take that, America.
Regardless of how stupid your political opinion, you take a condescending view of everyone else’s.
To be political, you need to get your news from places other than the Daily Show and conspiracy blogs. If you’re not political, just say you’re not political. I’m not political. When I write a political post, I just make up the statistics that sound right. It’s surprisingly easy to trick people into believing you’re political if you use the right words. But hipsters are required to have a political opinion, even if they think that ‘Whigs’ and ‘Tories’ are still the major voting parties in this county.
Personally, I’m voting Tory next time around. “A Modest Proposal’ convinced me we needed major poorhouse reform in this country.
You think you’re counterculture, when you are the exact opposite.
People started rejecting society’s norms and turned rebellion into a lifestyle as early as the 1960s. As those people grew to adulthood, never getting married, recreational drug use and distrust in the government became the new norm. Old counterculture is the new norm. If you were really counterculture, you’d be a Christian republican who is against gay marriage and the legalization of marijuana. I’m sorry, but your world views are no longer edgy when your parents agree with them.
Look, I’m not a hipster. I’m not affecting an air of laziness and disdain. I’m actually just lazy and disdainful. I have been since I was four. I don’t leave my hair messy to convince you of how little I care. I just haven’t been able to get my brush in two weeks, because I dropped it under my bed, and deep down inside, I know there’s a monster underneath there.
My life isn’t a lifestyle. It’s what happens when a depressed alcoholic spends too much time in the sun. I’m not a hipster. I’m not hip or trendy. I’m simply mostly buzzed and mildly grumpy. My behavior isn’t a social statement. It’s a cry for help.
Today, something that most people call inspiring kind of set me off. Specifically, it’s the new Cover Girl, “Girls Can” campaign.
There are so many things I hate. I hate peas and cold weather. I hate fan fiction. I hate Kirk Cameron, the Taliban and people who clap when the plane lands.
But above all, I hate being patronized.
In case you haven’t seen this ‘inspiring’ new gem, it features a group of female celebrities, who normally, I don’t hate. These ladies spend the entire commercial talking about how hard it is to reach the top as a woman in music, business, and a whole host of other industries that are apparently allergic to vaginas.
This is all done for a campaign for a make-up company.
Now look, I’m not one of those chicks who hates make-up. I rarely wear it, because I can’t find a color scheme that matches my sweatpants, but I don’t hate it.
What I hate is that an industry that is completely dependent on making women feel like they’re not good enough unless they’re pretty has the balls to jump on the “girl power” train. What I hate is that a company that claims to be so women focused has a board of directors that’s 60% male.
I hate being patronized and I had the phrase ‘girl power’ or anything to do with ‘empowering woman’ because I find it entirely patronizing.
Nothing makes me want to smack a chick in the chops more than the phrase “girl power.” It’s usually spewed out after a bunch of shots of Jose Cuervo, after said girl just got dumped and has decided to “give up on men” and “just focus on me for awhile”.
Even though I give an agreeable smile and down my own shot, I get annoyed. Why?
Ladies, ask yourself this? Has a man ever done this? Has any dude you’ve even known shouted out ‘boy power” as he downs a shot and said that he didn’t care about picking up, he just wants to focus on himself? No?
Hold on while I recover from my shock.
Ladies, straight up; it’s patronizing. While you’re shrieking out ‘girl power’ you’re making it clear that you had no power of your own to begin with. When you say, “I’m just gonna focus on me,” you’re indicating that you weren’t before. And I know, two months from now, no matter how much ‘focusing on you’ you’re trying to do, you’ll have some unemployed douche bag living on your couch because you’re afraid of dying alone.
Because you’re not powerful. You’re just using a phrase that rich white dudes came up with to sell lipstick.
People who are actually powerful never have to tell others that they’re powerful. It’s obvious from their actions. When woman who are powerful say “I succeeded despite the fact that I’m a woman,” they’re not taking a stand for feminism. They’re simply making it sound like there’s something wrong with being a woman.
And when they start saying dumb shit like ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can!’ it sounds a lot to me like of case of protesting too much. It’s patronizing.
The fact is, some girls can’t. Just like boys, some girls are stupid and lack talent and would have never made it to begin with. It’s not because they’re girls. It’s just because they suck.
And yelling ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can’ all night isn’t going to change that, no matter how many celebrities you stick in your ads.
As you know, I frequent a little place called “Gas Station” for purchasing my addiction necessary items; i.e. cigarettes and beer. No, I’m not making the name up or changing it. This place is actually just called “Gas Station.”
I can respect that kind of marketing transparency.
What I can’t respect is you, new cashier. You have started playing the obnoxious dating game that I hate so much, despite the fact that I want nothing more to do with you than beer and cigarette purchases.
Let me give you the dating game in four stages, in case it’s unclear.
- Outright flirting “gee, your eyes are blue.” “I like your hair like that.”
- Passive aggressive flirting. “You’d look prettier in orange.” “Why don’t you leave your hair down?”
- Playing hard to get. “Oh, I can’t wait on you now. I’m busy answering my fucking cell phone.”
- Outright hostility. “Do you need to drink this much beer?” “Despite the fact that I see you 14 times a day, I need to see some ID.”
Apparently, new cashier, you have decided we’re in some type of relationship because I go to your store on a regular basis. I have been put through all of the obnoxious stages of flirting, from outright flirting, to outright hostility, despite the fact that I have no interest in you whatsoever.
Look at me. I show up at your fucking store in sweatpants with hair that hasn’t been brushed in a week and I bitch about period cramps as I slip an economy pack of tampons onto your register. I am making no effort to impress you. This is not part of the mating ritual. You are supposed to be my safe zone. I shouldn’t have to deal with your fucking mind games because I never promised you anything but the $4.23 a day it costs to support my nicotine addiction.
But you still manage to get offended by me refusing to date you. Really, you should be thankful. I’m a terrible human being. But you need to stop being offended, because you aren’t my type.
Let’s make this crystal clear. In order to even the playing field, because I’m Barbie with a brain, you must be one of two things to date me.
- You must be much better looking than me.
- You must be smarter than me.
I meet the guys I date by stumbling into shirtless models outside of Abercrombie and Finch, or by trolling Mensa meetings. I have never, and will probably never, pick up a cashier at the convenience store because he’s holding my beer and cigarettes hostage. I’m better looking than you (even on a sweatpants day). I guarantee I’m smarter than you, because right off the top off my head I can think of 11 different alternatives to working at a convenience store.
So stop with the bullshit. We’re not soul mates; we never even dated. I barely know you and I don’t give a shit about you.
I know you think that you have all the power, because you stand behind the register, but you don’t. There are at least 34 different convenience stores I could go to in a four block radius. I used to choose yours, because I used to enjoy it. Then they hired you, and they ruined it.
I’m not usually the kind of chick who makes complaints; I’m far too lazy to do that. But I’m seriously thinking about having your ass fired. Because when you think about it, who is management going to side with?
The totally replaceable dude they’re paying $6.00 an hour to, who makes his customers wait while he makes imaginary calls on his cell phone?
Or are they going to side with me, the chick whose beer and cigarette purchases are putting their kids through college? Trust me bro, I push it, you’ll be out of there faster than I can say namastē.
Save your novice college games for the girls who will actually play them and get me my beer and cigarettes without wasting my fucking time. I’m not at Gas Station to flirt. I am here to buy what I need to buy and move the fuck on. You want to play games, know that my game playing skills come in at the advanced level. Expect some slashed tires.