I have a lot of projects going on, plus I need to concentrate on my other pen name for a bit. Too many things on my plate, and one has to go, at least for awhile. So for now…
Hope to see you here when I return.
Take a look through my archives and note how many of my posts talk about how heavily I drink. If you will, you might start to assume that I’m an alcoholic. I’m not. Not even remotely, but the symptoms are all there.
After all, 15% of the population now self-identifies as alcoholics. Might as well be trendy and hip, especially if your doctor is willing to tell you need to be part of a 12-step program.
Here are some questions on the standard alcoholic quiz.
- Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?
- Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking– stop telling you what to do?
- Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?
- Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble
Did you answer two of those as yes? Congrats. Welcome to the hip and trendy world of alcoholism, where you can talk about yourself and your “addiction” all day in order to get some of that attention you so desperately crave. Hell, maybe you can meet a hot dude in your AA meeting…and then hook up for drinks afterward. Because that’s all it is. It’s a club filled with platitudes and it means nothing.
Unless you actually meet an alcoholic.
We had a ghost when I was a kid. It wandered the halls of our house at night, bumping, and swearing and banging into things. All of the bottles of mouthwash in our house were empty. The ghost did it at night. There would be random holes in the walls and I’d wake up and my mom was crying. The ghost put the holes in the walls and the ghost made my mother cry.
I hated that ghost, but I was only five years old. Who the hell was I to stand up against a ghost?
The years went on. The ghost did things he didn’t remember. Sometimes, the ghost was happy. It would make us French toast in the morning or sausages and French fries at night. But no matter how temporarily nice that ghost might be, I was always afraid of it. Always.
Sometimes, I would wander down into the garage. When I was feeling particularly brave, I’d take a peek at the ghost. He didn’t look like a ghost. He was just a handsome, green-eyed man, drinking an 18 pack of cheap beer while he stared at the wall.
But he still scared the shit out of me. His eyes were so empty and it was clear he’d stopped caring about anything a long time before I got there. He was going through the motions of life.
The end of our ghost came on a night in early spring. I can’t remember the date. I just remember the ghost came raging. The ghost came screaming. He was angry, looking to pick a fight, and my tough as nails mother finally had enough. I remember her picking me up, carrying me out of the house while the neighbors looked on, telling the ghost “If you want them, you’ll have to go through me”.
We went away for a bit. We left the ghost in our old house all alone. I guess that made the ghost rethink his life choices, because the ghost went to rehab.
When I went to rehab to visit him, he wasn’t a ghost anymore. He was my father again. He was a quiet, serious man, who could still throw out a snappy one-liner and could help you with just about any math problem. He could do the mortgage interest in his head and rewire a house in 15 minutes. He’d watch stupid movies with me late at night, crack one-liners as we watched them, and laugh at mine.
But what he’d done to himself, to his family and to my mother, had damaged him. He would never be who he was again. As much as I loved him, I knew he’d never really be my dad anymore. My mom knew he’d never be the boy she met.
It was a bit like meeting someone after they woke up from a coma. The world has changed, but you’re pretty sure they haven’t. But you have, and all you can do is try to make them fit into your life again.
It doesn’t always work.
My dad was a real alcoholic. He’s not one of your trendy, new age ones doing this for attention. For the first eight years of my life, my father was a ghost. He barely existed, but for the alcohol fueling him. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t my dad.
He was just the scary ghost that lived in my house. He lost his family over it. My dad spent most of the important years in my life being drunk, then he spent the rest recovering from being drunk. He never got the chance to know me.
That’s a damn shame, because I think he really would have liked me.
That’s what real alcoholism is. It’a disease that takes away your body and turns you into someone else. The booze takes over and you become a ghost of your former self. You do things you regret, because you don’t think you’re really there. To an alcoholic, life is an abstract concept and the feelings of others don’t matter.
It changes you.
It’s not a trend. It’s not something you sign in on because all your friends are doing it or you had one regretful night at spring break. There are no numbers that show you’re an alcoholic. There is no appropriate number of drinks.
There’s only this. Has drinking changed you? Has it turned you into someone you don’t want to be? Do you not even remember who you used to be anymore? Has it gotten to the point where your kids won’t care when you die?
Then, you have a problem. It’s not about how many boxes you check off in some predefined test. It’s not about the number of drinks you have in a day.
It’s about your life and how you feel about it. If you’re showing up to be trendy, to talk about your new drinking problem like it’s an episode of the Kardashian’s, back the fuck away. Stop faking addiction in an effort to be interesting.
Because you’re not addicted to booze. You’re addicted to attention. I only wish there was an attention whores anonymous.
I’m not an alcoholic. Not saying that out of denial, or attention seeking, I’m just saying what I know to be true. I’m not and I’m pretty sure most of these people going to AA aren’t either. They’re feigning it because they’re trendy attention seeking whores.
My dad was an alcoholic. He let booze take over his life. He had a compulsion to drink. When he finally stopped, it was too late to take back everything he’d done.
Alcoholism isn’t a trend. It’s a disease. It’s a disease you never recover from and the people around you…they never recover from it either. So stop treating it like a fucking slap bracelet. It’s not a fad.
It’s life. And sometimes, life really, really sucks.
It genuinely amazes me how many people email me asking for free writing, simply for exposure. Look people, if I wanted exposure, I’d travel down to New Orleans and show my tits to a stranger.
Weirdly, they aren’t quite so accepting of it when it’s not Mardi Gras. Instead of beads, you just get a summons for public nudity. Such bullshit.
I don’t write for free. When I’m working for a client, I charge industry average based on my experience. That starts at 10 cents per word and works its way up to 25 cents per word, depending on the complexity of the article. While those prices might seem high, I can personally guarantee that people will pay them if you’re good enough.
I’m not just good enough. I’m fucking great.
But I wasn’t always this good. Once upon a time, I worked for content mill fees. The first client I got to pay me 2 cents per word, I rejoiced like a fool. Two cents per word!!! I only had to write 50 articles a week to live! So I wrote until my fingers bled and I was thrilled at the fact that I could live on my writing. After all, I was getting exposure! I had clips!
Anyone who has ever tried to break into freelancing before, you probably know how precious clips are. To get clients, you need to show you have published articles on websites. That’s probably why so many people are willing to write for free to get those clips.
But you all need to stop. You ruin your credibility and cut yourself off at the knees when you work for sites that aren’t known to pay people for their work. “A Huffington Post author applied for this job?” The client will say. “That means they’re good, and they’re willing to work for peanuts!”
Is that the reputation you want?
The big companies that do this, Huffington Post included, piss me the hell off. These people are raking in billions of dollars in content views and affiliate sales every year, while the people the write that content get nothing.
Oh, not nothing. I forgot…they get exposure. But did you know you can get exposure without lining someone else’s pockets? Here are some tips on how to do it.
#1 – Start your own website and post your writing samples. You all might notice that I have a page on this site called “Essa’s Writing Samples”. There, I link to a bunch of internal pages I created, covering a large variety of topics. These articles came about when I got scammed on a job. To prevent the scammer from using my original work, I posted it all first. In short, I made lemons of lemonade.
Now, when I’m applying for a new job, regardless of subject, I always have a link to something relevant. I own all the rights, so I can resell the articles if I want. As I’ve always said, never give up your rights in exchange for nothing. That’s just stupid. If someone wants the rights to post your work, they should offer something more than exposure. You can get that yourself by creating your own writing sample page.
#2 – Don’t underestimate your blog, but don’t turn it into a marketing page either. I’ve never really seen Essa on Everything as a moneymaker. That’s why I don’t try very hard to stay professional and PC in my articles. On Essa on Everything, I write for the fun of it. I let myself go and the passion shows through in my writing. It isn’t exactly PG-13. I don’t try to make it that way.
But this blog had gotten me more clients than any completed application. From my “Passion of the Christ” article, I got a movie reviewing job that has lasted at least two years and has led to other work. From my article where I wrote an algorithm to keep myself from drunkenly purchasing things on Amazon, I got a job writing tech articles with a high-profile software company and I sold the algorithm. I never expected to make money on either of these articles. I just wrote what I was passionate about and people responded. I didn’t turn my page into an advertising page. If I had, I would have concentrated on staying PG and none of it would have worked out the way it did.
#3 – Write a book. KDP makes it so anyone can publish a book these days, but not a lot of people realize that. One of my biggest selling points in ghostwriting is how many books I’ve published, their status as bestsellers and how many good reviews they’ve gotten. While you might not hit bestseller status on Amazon with a book, it is a good way to show you understand ghostwriting.
People, you do not need to work for free. Breaking into freelancing is hard, but if you’re willing to work hard and pay your dues, you’ll find your niche. When I started, I expected to be writing dating tips and product reviews for a penny a word. Over the years, I’ve learned that my niche areas are sex and tech, for a much higher amount. They’re very different, but they both pay high and despite what people may think, clients are willing to pay a premium price for premium content.
Google has changed. Their algorithm now rewards page rank based on article quality, and not quantity. That means those keyword stuffers working for peanuts will soon be out of business. So stop working for free. If you think you’re good enough to write for a living, then expect people to pay for it. If you don’t want to get paid for you work, might I suggest working for a non-profit instead?
When I was a child, my father shared a sage piece of advice with me.
No one in the world gives a shit if you’re sad. Get over it and get me another beer.
It genuinely was the nicest 3rd birthday a girl could ask for.
As drunkenly mean as my dad might have been the day he shared that advice with me, he was also right. He taught me a valuable lesson. Other people will never see things from your point of view. They will never live in your shoes. And that’s ok.
Bullying is a bit of a buzzword these days and it annoys me. It annoys me because the fear of being called bullies is making us all afraid to say anything at all. It’s making it so we can’t share our opinions without being accused of being a bully or blaming the victim.
It’s making it ok to not just validate, but celebrate, other people’s bad life choices.
A few days back, I was listening to this podcast. It’s called the Biggest Problem In the Universe. Hilarious, if you’re ever looking for something to listen to.
One day, one of the biggest problems was ‘everyone needs to lose twenty pounds.’ The main complaint was that the average female weight was like 150 and that most girls who weighed that amount could stand to lose 20 pounds.
As I weigh 150, I was immediately insulted. I like the way I look. I am by no means slender, but I look good. How dare some guy who had never seen me say that I didn’t look good? How dare he suggest I need to lose 20 pounds? Then, I took a shower and caught a glimpse of my naked ass in my full-length mirror and I realized he was probably right. I could stand to lose twenty pounds.
So I immediately raced to the gym…and bought a Coke from the vending machine that sits right outside of its doors to mix with my vodka. Dealing with personal faults is so much easier when you’re loaded.
Here’s the deal. He’s probably right. I’m a bit overweight. And I’m not changing a thing. It isn’t about embracing my beautiful, curvy body. It isn’t about forcing someone to say I’m pretty when they don’t think I am. It’s about me deciding how important my looks are to me.
I don’t try very hard on the way I look. I don’t watch what I eat. I don’t watch what I drink. I don’t go to the gym (unless I’m buying mixers for my booze). My wardrobe is a revolving stack of novelty t-shirts and sweatpants I bought at yard sales. When it comes to physical appearance, I am not trying.
When I put no effort at all into the way I look, isn’t it kind of fucking dumb to expect everyone to think I’m beautiful?
I think of it this way. I’m a novelist. Most of my books, I work very hard on. People like my writing because I make a serious effort to entertain in my writing.
I could pull out a bunch of the shitty teen-angst filled poetry that I wrote when I was 15, slap it up on Amazon without spell checking or formatting it, and not make a single fucking sale. Would it be ok for me to get pissed when my existing fan base doesn’t praise my writing and call it beautiful? No, of course not. In fact, I’d expect several hundred emails asking if I’d had a stroke.
In short, I wouldn’t expect people to like what I’d written, because I made no effort at all when I was writing it.
Generally, beauty trends follow what is hard to obtain. During the depression, the hottest of women were slightly chubby, because being chubby was a sign of wealth. It meant you could actually afford food. Fat became synonymous with high class. In some poorer countries, this is still the case.
But in America, our food is filled with white flour, refined sugars and empty calories. To avoid getting chubby on this stuff, you either need to spend the money to buy other products, or you need to log a fuckton of hours at the gym. You need to work to be thin. No, people aren’t born beautiful. They work at it and they work hard.
Take my friend, Sassy Filipina for example. Sassy’s an easy dime. She was born with perfect features, great skin, and very good hair. And if she’d decided to live on a steady diet of American food and reality television, she would look just as slovenly as any four on the scale.
But Sassy works for her 10 status. Despite having two kids and a high-pressure job, she watches what she eats and she goes to four spin classes a week. She stays active all the time and she stays attractive all the time. She works hard to look the way she does because being attractive is important to her.
To me, ‘everyone is beautiful’ falls into the same category as ‘everyone gets a trophy’. It’s stupid. I wouldn’t expect someone to tell me I’m a world-class mathematician because I know how to work a calculator, just to avoid hurting my feelings. And I don’t expect people to call me beautiful when I make no effort at all to be beautiful.
Am I saying you can’t be pretty and chubby? Not at all. I have a few extra pounds on me, but I still turn heads when I walk into a room…especially when that room is a Cuban dance club. I’m just saying that when you demand everyone embrace your curvy body as the new standard of beauty, you’re being unfair. You’re being unfair to the people that don’t find that attractive and you’re being unfair to the people that actually work hard to meet that standard of beauty we as a people have set.
You’re also focusing way too much on your looks. One day, we will all be ugly. Every last one of us. I don’t focus too much on my looks because of that (and also the fact that I’m incredibly lazy). So don’t expect people to tell you you’re beautiful just because you roll out of bed every morning. People who really want to be physically beautiful work hard to be that way. If you don’t want to put in the effort, then don’t expect the praise.
As for me, I don’t want to put in the effort. I’d rather stick to using the gym as a place to buy mixers for my drinks. To me, that’s just fucking beautiful.
I have an extensive listing of things that are bad for me that I continue to do. I drink, I have promiscuous sex, I refuse to get a real job and I drive a car that’s brake system is the equivalent of Fred Flintstone stopping a car with his feet. I take great pride in living a high-risk lifestyle.
But above all, I smoke. I’m not one of those pussy, “social smokers’. You know, those hipster assholes who steal all your cigarettes when you’re out drinking together? I am a hardcore, fully addicted smoker. To give you an example, one time, I was involved in a fire. My old roommate had accidentally lit her bed on fire (sexy, right?) with a candle while she was sleeping.
As we raced out the doors, sprinklers coming on and the hallways filling with acrid smoke, I could only think of one thing.
“Shit, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”
I was able to bum one from a fireman, but my point here is, that even engulfed in a full wall of smoke, all I could think about was inhaling more.
So yeah, I’m an addict.
So why do all you anti-smoking assholes out there think you’re the ones who are going to get through to me? If I can smoke in a three-alarm fire, chances are your little speech about the dangers of emphysema are going in one ear and out the other.
The other day, I was at Gas Station, my favorite place on earth. I was buying my standard pack of 305 menthols from my friendly Indian cashier, who I refer to as Mr. Indian John Travolta (because he looks like an Indian John Travolta), when some overweight, redneck asshole comes popping out of the bathroom, dragging an 18 pack of beer with him.
He sees the cigarettes in my hand. “You know those things are bad for you?”
This time, instead of just rolling my eyes, I responded.
“Holy shit, you’re fucking kidding me! I had no idea. See my doctor told me they were ideal for curing ‘the vapors’ and ‘female hysteria’. Why would he lie to me? They should put a warning on these things or something! <flips over pack in my hands with wide-eyed idiot look> Oh, wait, here’s one, right from the Surgeon General. Funny I’ve never noticed it before. <eyes man suspiciously> Are you the surgeon general? If so, thank you., so much. You really changed my life.”
This is not a stupid man. He clearly knew I was making fun of him. So he responded. “Ok, I’m sorry. You’re just too pretty to smoke.”
Guys, I know you think you’re flirting when you say stuff like this, but honestly, it‘s statements like this that make me want to dip my goddamn face in battery acid. Because when you say this, you’re saying one of two things.
One, being pretty makes me stupider than normal people and I need to be told how to make my life decisions. Or two, being pretty makes me a more valuable breeding commodity that needs to be extended as long as possible despite its self-destructive tendencies.
Neither of those opinions are valid. First off, I’m pretty fucking smart. I might not be Steven Hawking, but I can personally guarantee you that the phrase ‘too pretty to smoke’ doesn’t come off as flirtation to smart girls. It comes off as condescending.
Second, in case you’re eyeing me up for an egg candidate, being pretty doesn’t make me a good breeder. I’m thirty-four and I like to drink while occasionally dabbling in recreational drug use. There’s a very good chance that any eggs coming out of this uterus will be filled with all kinds of brain damage.
But hey, at least they’ll be pretty.
So after the dude told me I was too ‘pretty to smoke’ I took the kid gloves off.
“Well, you’re too fat to pee standing up, but you don’t see me kicking in the bathroom stall and warning you of the dangers of lumbar herniation while you’re draining the lizard, now do you?”
With that, the bathroom man gave Mr. Indian John Travolta one of those ‘this bitch is crazy’ looks and walked out of the store.
Look, people, stop this. Stop getting into other people’s faces about the personal decisions they make with their bodies. You don’t see me wandering around restaurants, telling fat people to lay off the red meat and get a chicken salad, do you? No, because what you do with yourself is up to you.
You don’t know me and you don’t know my life. For all you know, I might not be that interested in living that long anyway. My grandfather smoked every day of his adult life before he died of cancer at 69.
To me, that’s just about perfect. Long enough to live a full life, and not so long that I become this needy, dependent thing, just waiting to die. I have no desire to live to 100. I’d rather cut this all off at the peak and move on to the next life.
“Too pretty to smoke’ is not a flirtation. It’s condescending, rude and makes me want to stab you in the eye.
I smoke because I’m addicted and I don’t need you reminding me that ‘smoking is bad for you’. I’m not fucking stupid. I’m addicted and every time I try to quit, some idiot comes up and reminds me of why it would be better to die young anyway.
We all make bad choices. Chances are, if you’re reading this now, you’re addicted to some drug or another; you’re in a relationship that just isn’t right for you, or a job you hate. Maybe you weigh a little too much or maybe you focus on your weight too much. We all have our vices. It’s up to us to decide how much we allow those vices to control our lives.
Right now, me and smoking, we’re at a happy medium. So stop with the convenience store sermons, because cigarettes have been part of my life for far longer than you, and neither of us gives a shit about your opinions.
The title kind of says it all. To explain where this is coming from, today, I got an 1100 word message responding to a post that I wrote two and a half years ago. As I close down the comments section after around 30 days, this poster couldn’t put their long winded argument into my comments section.
So they emailed me.
Apparently, this person thought that their genius position was so groundbreaking, so incredible, so amazing, that I absolutely must read it, even if they were showing up to the conversation two years and five months too late.
So I deleted their email without reading it.
Look people, I know many of you disagree with the stances I take on various issues. I have to admit, I’m kind of all over the place. I’m all for the death penalty, but am also against the pro-life movement. I tout a drug legalized society for the financial benefits, and then say that illegal immigration is cool in my book.
Let me explain the evolution of an Essa blog. See, it initially started as a place to pimp my books. But I’m not super great at marketing, like to drink, and eventually, this turned into a page where I rant about everything that pisses me off.
It went from being an online marketing platform, to an online diary, and I regret nothing.
So every once in a while, I vent in my diary and you read it. You might like it, you might not like it. You might disagree with it. But you’re not changing my mind. Not now, not ever.
This page isn’t here for marketing, anymore. I haven’t written an Essa Alroc book in 3 years and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever even finish my first series. This page isn’t here for page views. While I make a nice residual income from marketing, it’s hardly keeping me in leather pants and candy apples every month.
This page is a journal. It’s where I get over the stuff that really pisses me off. And what you think about those thoughts? Yeah, that doesn’t mean shit to me. You’re not changing my mind.
If you can write an 1100 word response to something I wrote, you should probably start your own fucking blog.
So yeah, I play fast and loose with the comments. I’ll let a few through, and decide not to let a few through. I’ll ignore your emails and not care that you spent all night looking up ‘facts’ on Wikipedia. You piss me off enough, I might even change your comment, just for fun. This is not CNN. No one gives a fuck about your opinion; especially seeing your opinion always includes ‘It’s Obama’s fault’ when no one is fucking talking about politics. People don’t come here to read your opinion.
People come here to read mine.
This is my online diary. It’s not a news blog. It’s not a forum where you can get into random fights with commenters. Hell, it’s not even a shitty Buzz Feed article. It’s my innermost thoughts.
And I really don’t give a fuck what you think about them. If you want to comment, comment. If you can get your comment in under the thirty-day timeslot, and not make me go cross-eyed reading 1100 words of block text, I’ll let you through. But don’t bother emailing your stupid comment nearly two years after the original post and expecting me to give a shit about it.
Because I really, really don’t. That’s why this page is called “Essa on Everything” and not “Random Asshole on Everything”.
Deal with it.
I don’t have a lot to lose. That’s why I feel free to say everything I say. You can’t change my mind about the things I say. I wouldn’t have written an article if my position wasn’t solid. You can’t email this shit to my boss and embarrass me because I am my own boss and my boss thinks I’m awesome. The page doesn’t threaten my book sales because the people that read it never actually buy my books.
This is not a democracy. I am not looking for feedback on my management style. This is an aristocracy on the same line as Thunderdome. So in this little universe, the only opinions that matter are Tina Turners’ and mine. Welcome to Thunderdome, bitches.
Consider me Aunty Entity.
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.