Essa Alroc's Blog, page 19

Essa’s Adventures- Essa Learns the Meaning of Life Through Religion

I peer out the window of my office/bedroom and see a familiar sight. Two men, both wearing identical short sleeve white shirts and dark ties are about to knock.

I don’t have to worry about finding Jesus. Due to the heavy church community surrounding my neighborhood, Jesus keeps fucking finding me.

“Mormons or Jehovah’s?” I ask myself as I peek out the slat in my blinds. It’s so damn hard to tell the difference. This will probably sound racist, but all door-to-door bible thumpers look the same to me. “Does it really matter what they are?” I ask myself as I sit back down.

I go through my various ways to get rid of them in my head. I could just ignore the door knocking, but they can be quite persistent in their knocking. A simple ‘get the fuck out of here’ works pretty well, as does shooing them away like squirrels with a broom.

But another thought occurs to me. It the Friday half day that I always give myself. I’m a few beers in and I’m…lonely. This reclusive lifestyle is starting to get to me as it always does when I’ve been drinking. These guys look nice and I am in no danger of getting brainwashed. As a self professed narcissist, it is very hard to get me to believe in god, because I actually think I am god.

I make a decision. It’s time to try being social again. I get out of my computer chair and rip open my front door before the man’s hand even connects with the door for the first knock.

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” I beam widely as two damn near identical, handsome in a non-threatening way, men stare at me. “I can only assume you’re here to tell me about Jesus?”

The men look at each other and I am almost 100% positive that this is the first time anyone has ever responded to them in a friendly way before. The guy on the left takes the lead. “Good evening. I’m Xavier and this;” he gestures to the guy next to him “is Chester.”

“Wow, your parents must have hated you guys, huh?” I can only imagine the level of ass kicking’s growing up with the name ‘Xavier’ or ‘Chester’ could entail. I finish off my beer and wander off to the fridge, leaving the door open. “If you’re gonna come in, come in. It’s August in Florida and I ain’t paying for air conditioning to keep the palmetto bugs cozy.”

After some hesitation, they both wander in behind me and settle down on my couch.

“What’s your name?” Xavier asks me as he looks around.

I pop the tab on another Natural Light and respond. “It’s Felicity. Felicity Cuntlicker.”

Xavier looks offended. “Look, if you’re not going to tell me your real name…”

I raise an eyebrow and look offended right back. “What makes you think that’s not my real name?” I roll my eyes and head towards the front door. “Awesome, yet another two jerks ready to make fun of my name. You assholes are just like the guys in my high school. No wonder I never got married. I think it’s time for you two to go.” I start to open the door, my face turned away to hide my smirk.

“No, wait!” Apparently, Xavier is too reluctant to let this juicy worm off the hook and had decided to accept my ridiculous name. “Ms. Cuntlicker, I apologize.” He clears his throat. “If you have time, I was just hoping to discuss the creator with you.”

I stay turned towards the door as I damn near snort beer through my nose.  We are off to a delightful start. “Which creator?” I turn around.

Xavier looks somber. “The only creator. He is “Jehovah the Creator of the extremities of the earth. Isaiah 40:28.”

I nod and start off on my own quote. “New York was steaming – an angry concrete animal caught unawares in an unseasonable hot spell, but she didn’t mind the heat or the littered midway called Times Square.” I nod again. “Susann, chapter 1, verse 1.”

Both men are watching me, looking utterly lost. “Excuse me?” Xavier finally asks.

“I thought we were quoting our favorite books? Mine’s ‘Valley of the Dolls’. Yours is apparently the bible.” I sigh. “A bit clichéd, don’t you think? I mean the bible has some good stories and all, but it’s buried in so much crap that you have to skip entire chapters before you can get to any of the action parts. That’s why I like Jacqueline Susann. She’s all action.”

“Oh,” Xavier looks so confused that I would feel bad for him, if I wasn’t an alcoholic narcissist. “Well, we wanted to give you a…”

“What’s “extremities of the earth?” I interrupt.

“Excuse me?”

“’Extremities of the earth’. That’s what you said. ‘Extremities of the earth’.” I roll the phrase around in my mouth. I can’t say I don’t like it. I just don’t understand what it means. “Because technically, in every religious book or scientific paper I read, the universe has no extremities.”

“Well…”

“Because extremities are the absolute limits of something. If something is infinite, it has no limits, so there are no absolute limit.”

“It was more symbolic…”

“Ugh,” I plop down in a chair and continue drinking my beer. “That’s what I hate about the bible. So many fucking plot holes that no one bothers to fill.” I take a look at the guys watching me warily. “Do you guys want a beer?”

“We don’t drink.” Xavier responds.

“No drinking at all?” I roll my eyes. “This is why I’m glad I was brought up Catholic. We drink all the time. Even in church. I’ll tell you, there is nothing funnier than getting hammered at midnight mass on Christmas Eve.”

Xavier sees an opening. “Actually, Catholicism and the Church of Jehovah have a lot in common. We both…”

“Oh, I’m not Catholic anymore. I bailed after I got my confirmation money. That’s what most Catholics are in it for anyway. The payoff on their 16th birthday.” I look down at my beer. “Well, that and the payoff from all their child molestation lawsuits.”

“Um…”

“Do the Jehovah’s have a problem with that?” I lean forward and look at Xavier with a serious expression. “I mean, can you give me ballpark statistic? What’s the ratio of priests to molested children in your religion?”

“We don’t have priests, we have…”

“Fuck it.” I wave a hand and continue drinking. “I actually don’t do the religious thing anymore. I’m more a believer in universal energy, because I’ve seen some scientific evidence of that.” I am now feeling scientific. “I mean, energy is something that has been scientifically proven. Everything on the planet is in a state of constant motion. Even when it dies.” I wriggle my beer can. “Even this simple can is in a state of constant motion, even though is doing nothing. If it ever stopped moving, then it would simply cease to be.”

“Existence is…”

“I mean, that’s the crazy thing about energy. Nothing ever ends, as long as its cells are in motion. Even when it dies, its cells still move.” I smack myself on the head. “That’s what death is! It’s not about the end of movement. It’s about the end of the awareness about that movement. Something is alive, so it is aware it is alive and it feels its need to remain in motion. So it feeds that need. But then it stops being alive, so that awareness of that desire to remain in motion disappears. It dies, but it’s still moving. It’s just not aware that it’s moving anymore. Life and death aren’t about the end or beginning. They are about the acknowledgement of existence and the desire to continue that existence. Just because we lack the desire to continue to exist does not mean we stop existing.” I crush the beer can in my hand. “Holy shit, I think I just discovered the meaning of life.”

‘Well, glad I could help…”

“Yeah, yeah,  yeah.” I wave him off. “Look, can you guys get going? I have to honestly tell you, the Jehovah’s’ stance on alcohol is a deal breaker in my book. And don’t get me started on that blood transfusion thing. Do you have any idea how often I get into knife fights? If I started saying no to blood transfusions, I’d be dead in a week.” I point to the door. “Now get out of here before I forget what I’ve learned and thanks for indirectly helping me find the meaning of life.” I shove them out the door but I can’t stop thinking about my constant motion theory.

Xavier presses a pamphlet into my hand on his way out. “Read this. It will help you find the way.”

I press something into his hand in return. “Read this, it will help you understand the universe.”

“This is a crumpled up label from your beer bottle.” Xavier looks confused.

“And the fact that you know that means you acknowledge your existence. You’re welcome.” I slam the door in his face and race to my computer to write down what I’ve learned.

“I think, therefore I am.”

I have finally learned what that actually means. To Xavier and Chester, thanks for helping me work through that crisis of faith.

But I have no faith in your wacky religion. Fuck praying to an invisible daddy figure, I have motion to be aware of. I might finally find a way to prove that time is cyclical, that everything is cyclical, but in a linear nature. And I bet I am the first person in the universe to have ever been glad she opened the door to a couple of Jehovah witnesses.

The fact that I am aware of that means I exist.

 

What a Fucking Hypothesis!

I think we all know about my deep disdain for online dating. A lot of this comes from being a writer and a judgmental bitch. If someone can’t be bothered to capitalize or punctuate a sentence, I just assume they’re as lazy in bed as they are in their writing and move on. I’ve actually never found a ‘screwable’ during any online dating session and have decided to continue doing my predatory style pickups at bars for the foreseeable future.

However, I am currently ghostwriting a book and I had to do a little bit of research on a section. This brought me to an online forum where I saw this little gem posted.

You have to be a muscle bound stud, with a nice car and a high powered job to get anyone to respond to you on these sites.

I tried an experiment out on a dating site once — I created a profile of a guy who fitted the above description, and 10/10 women were going fucking crazy to contact me — lapdancers, models, etc, etc. All were cybering me and throwing their numbers at me.

Then I created a profile of a fat bearded guy with glasses. I said I live at home with mum, jobless and love Star Trek. Fuck me, every single one — even the uglies told “me” to get lost.

And I immediately thought ‘holy shit! What an incredible hypothesis! A woman, when given the choice between a handsome man who is financially stable, over a creepy fatty with no job, will go for the handsome guy almost every single fucking time! I wonder if this guy has alerted Harvard to this amazing study! I see a Nobel prize coming for someone…’

Look, assholes who post fake pictures of hot guys and get pissed off when all the girls respond; get bent. Women are under no more moral requirement to be ‘beauty blind’ than men. We are just as entitled to be focused on looks as men are. Take a look at the last 10 or so girls you contacted on these sites before you start throwing stones. Was every single one of them more attractive than average? Then you’re a hypocrite when you complain.

Oh, and I don’t care if you think you’re an 8 out of 10. Apparently, all the girls you’re messaging disagree. You might want to recalibrate that number you’re assigning yourself. To give you some perspective, I have made yet another awesome chart.

Levels of Attractiveness

Yet another awesome chart brought to you by Essa Alroc

 

Using the scientific methods of measuring facial symmetry, skin tone, skin clarity, height, build and who I am most likely to masturbate to when I’m not thinking about giant piles of money, I think I’ve made a clear and concise list that anyone can use. So dude, when you’re running around saying that you’re an 8, what you’re really saying is that you are as handsome as Blair Underwood.

Really?

No, come on, look again.  Really?

Because I tell you what, if you’re marching around, looking like Blair Underwood, you have no need for online dating. Women everywhere will be tossing their panties at you out of moving cars.

When I decide to pick up a guy, you know what I do? I approach the hottest guy in the club. It doesn’t matter that he’s a 10 and I’m a sober 6, drunk 7. I am being honest with myself when I do the numbers. Yes, I am conventionally pretty with a nice figure. That makes me slightly better than average. It does not mean that I could compete with Mila Kunis in a beauty pageant and win.

But it doesn’t mean I am somehow required by law to only try to pick up dudes that are also 6’s. I can go after a 10 if I want to.  If he shoots me down, I move on to the next guy.

What I don’t do is go online and bitch that all guys are superficial assholes and fuck around with people on dating sites to prove my genius hypothesis. I wasn’t attractive enough for one dude. Big fucking deal. I’m not being a superficial bitch. I’m going after the guy who meets my current needs.

I.e. I need to have an orgasm and the guy who gives it to me needs to be handsome. The handsomer, the better.

A guy who bitches that women all flock after guys with big muscles is about as stupid as a person who complains that all the scholarships at MIT go to mathematical geniuses who got 2100 on the SATs. Um, duh.

Do you know why really attractive people are considered really attractive? Give you a hint; the answer is in the question. Because people are attracted to them, and they approach these attractive people due to that attraction. So, if you get approached by a lot of people, that means you are attractive.

Is does not mean that everyone who doesn’t approach you is a superficial asshole. They’re just not attracted to you. Which, based on my scientific research, would indicate you are not attractive.

Now that my friends, if a fucking hypothesis.*

 

 

*well, not really. But at least I made a chart.  

 

 

Prince William Gives His First Interview on Becoming a Father

So I didn’t actually listen to the interview (because I don’t care), but I’ve decided to do my own interview, playing the parts of both Prince William and the interviewer.

Enjoy

 

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Patriarchies Are Dead for a Reason

I wrote this comment in response to one of the misogynistic assholes who frequent my site. Since I wrote it, that comment has stuck with me constantly. I can’t get it out of my head.

“Patriarchies are dead for a reason.”

That’s right people, I am such a fucking narcissist that I just quoted myself.

I’ve never considered myself a ‘feminist’. There’s really nothing that annoys me more than women bitching about stupid shit like how ‘policemen’ should be called ‘police officers’ or something like that. I hate arguments about semantics because arguments about gender neutral language distract us all from real issues.

I.e. while we’re all arguing about how ‘firemen’ should be called ‘fire fighters’ Capitol hill takes away more constitutional rights. We, like dumb sheep, never even notice. Because we’re busy arguing about gender lines.

I’m not a feminist. I’m an individualist (and possibly a mid level anarchist). However, I agree with the feminists on one thing.

Patriarchies must die.

In case you didn’t know, a patriarchy is a traditional caste system where men are in control and where women are subservient helpers. Your average ‘Donna Reed” family, with a mom who stays home and has babies, while a man tells everyone what to do, is a patriarchy.

I actually came from a patriarchy style family, with a dad who worked as a forestry worker when they were still called lumberjacks, and a mother who focused all her time and attention on her kids. I always felt like my mom got the short end of the stick, because she worked and took care of us, while my dad just worked, came home and did his own thing. My parents divorced when I was in my early 20’s.

I still talk to my mom every day, but I haven’t talked to my father in years. Why? Patriarchies. As far as my dad was concerned, his job was finished when I turned 18. He’d done his duty. He’d had two children, a boy and a girl. He’d provided for them until they were adults but he had no emotional attachment to those kids.

As far as my mother was concerned, she’d grown attached to my brother and I. As a result, she still makes a point of talking to us every single day. Those phone calls are the highlight of my day and I always feel like I could tell my mother anything.

I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t even know my middle name.

I have my dad’s last name. My mom did all the work, but in the history books, my dad will get all the credit. That’s why when my son was born, I gave him my last name. Strike a point for feminism on that one, woman can carry on the family name.

My fucked up family history aside, there is another reason that I think patriarchies need to be done away with and it is much more clinical. Population control.

Back in the middle ages, women would get married as soon as they had their first periods and start having babies right away. This was due to the infant mortality rate. Very few children ever saw adulthood, so the woman would have as many as possible to ensure they would have at least one heir. A woman might have 10 babies in her fertile years, but only see one survive to reach the age of 20.

As time went on, and medicine improved, women having babies so young became socially unacceptable. They started waiting until they were 18 or 19. Infant mortality rates improved. New diseases, like polio or malaria, started cutting down people in their teens or 20’s, when it was too late for the mother to birth more children. These diseases also caused infertility in a large number of men. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.

Then, our scientists developed inoculations. In case you want to look it up, the baby boom happened after that. Children, millions of children, who would grow up to be millions of healthy adults,  who would use up the worlds resources, came along.

And the universe decided that it must be balanced. Enter HIV.

In the 70’s and early 80’s, HIV came along, making people less likely to engage in promiscuous, unprotected sex. It was the first STD that was actually scary enough to stop people from screwing. Population control happened and the universe got its balance back.

Look up the statistics on Generation X. We were the generation born after people became fully aware of AIDS and we are the smallest generation in existence.

Gen X reached adulthood, but they were having a good time. They were enjoying the Seattle music scene and working on their college educations. They put off having babies until they were older but they still managed to have them. Advances in AIDS prevention made them more comfortable with having unprotected sex and they started having babies in their late 20’s and early 30’s. Difficulty conceiving resulted in fertility treatments that made multiple child births far more likely. The population exploded again.

Generation Y popped up and they were as big as the baby boomer generation. Scientific advances allowed their children to be born healthy. Even a mother with AIDS could give birth to a child without AIDS.  Immunizations kept them from dying from early childhood diseases and regular advances in medicine kept them from dying from preventable diseases that came along when they were capable of having children of their own.

But the universe must have its balance.  Instead of knocking us all down with horrible diseases, the universe decided to be cool this time around.

Generation Y girls no longer focused on having babies and supporting a family like their mothers did. Instead, they developed ambitions that didn’t include home and family. They learned how to develop dreams outside of being someone’s baby machine. When the Gen Y girls do decide to have kids, they will do it because they want to, not because that is what is expected of them. Instead of having 4 or 5 children, they will have 1 or 2.

And the universe will have its balance.

Population control is a necessary evil of the universe. When the planet couldn’t stop us with famine or disease, it found another way. It stopped us with reason and ambition. Men always had ambition, in an attempt to support their families. But now women have ambition too. They have dreams outside of being a mother. They focus on their careers and put their plans for families on hold.

And the universe gets its balance back.

The universe will always have its balance. It will never allow us to birth more people than its resources can support. When it couldn’t cut us all down with disease, it reasoned with us. It asked us to start seriously considering the decision to have children, rather than popping them out because that was what was expected of us.

Personally, I want to get along with the universe and I want to play by its rules. I don’t want to see half the world’s population die based on a virus the universe made up to keep our numbers down. Instead, I want to see people use reason to keep those numbers down.

Patriarchies are dead for that reason. They did not focus on individual satisfaction. They focused on a person’s ability to breed out a family. Unfortunately that caused way too many people to be born. The death of the patriarchy gave women their power back. They started deciding what to do with their bodies and they started deciding to not be baby makers just because tradition told them to.

So people out there, focus on your own satisfaction. Do not focus on how you’re biologically supposed to reproduce, because the universe doesn’t want you to do that. It’s giving us a chance here. It’s telling us “I will have my balance’ but it’s also giving us the opportunity to handle that population control ourselves. It’s never done that for us before; respect that.

Because one way or another, the universe will have its balance. If patriarchies had to die to keep it, instead of the majority of the world’s population, I’m totally cool with that.

The universe is watching and it is keeping count. Simply stated, think before you breed. Every last one of our lives may depend on it.

They Write the Songs…But I Complain About Them

I come from a musical family. My brother manages musical acts out in Vegas. My father played the drums since he was a teen. He was even in a couple of bands when I was a kid. The only one I can remember was a Christian rock band called “Denim Magic’.

You can only imagine how cool that made me in high school.

I myself had a beautiful singing voice until I developed a pack a day habit some time around the age of 12.

“You started smoking at 12?” you might be shrieking in horror.

No, I started smoking at 11. It takes a while for a person with lungs that small to work up to a pack a day. Stay with me here people. We’re here to talk about music, not about your judgmental opinions regarding pre-pubescent smoking.

Anyway, after I destroyed my voice in favor of menthol laced tobacco (I regret nothing) I developed something Freud would call ‘musical envy’. Due to the fact that I had no musical talent remaining, I did what any reasonable and slightly bitter person would do.

I became an expert on complaining about music. Today will be no exception.

Have you ever heard a song and wondered ‘what the hell does that even mean” or “that word doesn’t even exist’ or even ‘what the hell was this guy on when he wrote this song’? I know I have. So today I will be trashing all those hard working artists who either got too high brow or too damn lazy to write decipherable lyrics

I am so glad I turned off my site comments.

Essa’s Top 5 “What The F#&k” Songs

#5 – ‘Levon’  - Sir Elton John

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy Elton John’s music. In fact, I’ve been known to frequent lesbian Karaoke bars just so I could sing the song “I Wanna Kiss the Bride,” but the song ‘Levon’ is a massive mind fuck

Here’s a snippet;

Levon sells cartoon balloons in town

His family business thrives

Jesus blows up balloons all day

Sits on the porch swing watching them fly

My main question? How the hell is Levon’s ‘cartoon balloon’ business thriving when Jesus is releasing all his balloons into the sky every day? An exactly how sizable is the cartoon balloon industry anyway? What exactly does a cartoon balloon cost, like a dollar? Levon must be selling thousands of those damn things per week to be making any money at all. Finally, does Jesus have helium too? He’d have to, to be able to make the balloons ‘fly’. How the hell can a successful business man let his kid waste company resources like that?

#4 – ‘A Thousand Miles’ – Vanessa Carleton

Vanessa Carlton will get no props from me, because she is guilty of a crime against music; lazy lyricism. Check out this steaming pile of forced rhymes.

If I could fall

Into the sky

Do you think time

Would pass me by

No Vanessa, no it wouldn’t. And I would like to add that I would very much like to watch you fall out of the sky, preferably from a cruising altitude of about 33,000 feet.

#3 – ‘Gettin Jiggy Wit It’ – Will Smith

This song pisses me off in more ways than I can even explain. The first part it the title. Not “Getting Jiggy With it” Nope, he’s “Gettin Jiggy Wit It”. I’ve been waiting years for Pat Sajak to call Will Smith and let him know that consonants won’t cost him any money, only vowels will. In case you can’t remember this IQ reducing pile of crap, let me give you a snippit.

na na na na na na na nana na na na na nana

Gettin jiggy wit it

na na na na na na na nana na na na na nana

Gettin jiggy wit it

My spell check actually exploded when I added that in.

I have a theory about this song. I think that Will Smith was sitting around on a giant pile of money, bored, when he decided to make a bet with DJ Jazzy Jeff. The conversation went a little like this;

Will Smith – (counting money) White American teenagers love non-threatening  black rappers! I bet I could sell these assholes anything.

DJ Jazzy Jeff – No way man

Will Smith – (gives Jazzy his patented, eye brow raised ‘I’m the human equivalent of Bugs Bunny’ look) Wanna put your money with you mouth is?

DJ Jazzy Jeff – Fine, but I get to pick the terms. (He thinks about it for a minute) You need to sell a million copies of a song, but the only real word you’re allowed to use is the word ‘it’.

Will Smith – (Gets up, leaves. Returns 10 minutes later) Check the top ten. (They turn on the TV. “Gettin Jiggy Wit It” is Number 1) I wrote in on a napkin on my way to the radio station.

DJ Jazzy Jeff – Damn it! (Fades into complete obscurity)

#2 – ‘Swingin’ – John Anderson

Once upon a time, I actually thought that I hated country music. Then, I listened to some Brad Paisely, Dierks Bentley and other country music singers and realized that country wasn’t that bad. I believe my initial problem came from the PTSD I suffered after being exposed to the song ‘Swingin’ at an early age.

There’s a little girl, in our neighborhood.

Her name is Charlotte Johnson, and she’s really lookin’ good.

I had to go and see her, so I called her on the phone.

I walked over to her house, and this was goin’ on.

Let me get this straight, adult man John Anderson…there is a little girl in your neighborhood that you think is ‘really lookin’ good’? And according to the song, her parents are totally cool with you coming over so you can swing with her on the front porch? What kind of three-toothed-backwater-yokel-Podunk-pile-of-shit are you living in that your neighbors are not only not reporting you as a potential sex offender…they’re totally kosher with you coming over to drool over their child? No joke, this song friggen scarred me for life. It would have made number one if it wasn’t for;

#1 – ‘Hotel California’ – The Eagles

Let me tell you all something right now. If I ever find the Hotel California, I will burn it to the fucking ground and then I will piss on the ashes. I hate this song like I have never hated a song in my life. Why? Because it mocks me. It knows I hate it, but it has found a way to make me hear it at least once ever single day of my damn life.

If I ever become a billionaire, I will spend all my money buying every single copy of this song ever made and then buying a submarine so I can have all the copies plunged to the deepest depths of the sea for all eternity.

I’m not pasting any snippets of this song in because I’m afraid if I do, it will find me. Just rest assured that no one knows what the hell it’s about, not even The Eagles themselves. I’ve heard theories about it being about a mental hospital all the way down to it being about Don Henley’s first prostate exam. I don’t know and I don’t care. I only know that my life’s mission it to make sure that song can never hurt anyone again.

 

Essa’s Adventures – How to Lose a Tail

I look into the rearview mirror and my eyes narrow. The same blue Honda has been behind me for at least two miles. It looks like my reckless lifestyle has finally caught up with me.

I’m being followed.

This is going to take all the counter surveillance and defensive driving skills I have (all gained from watching four seasons of Burn Notice right in a row).

First, I need to verify that I am indeed being followed. I check my speed. I’m doing 85 in a 75 on the highway and the car behind me is keeping up with me. I up my speed to 90, slow it to 60, then up it to 90 again. (spy tip; if a car stays with you through several severe changes in speed, you’re probably being followed)

The blue Honda stays on my tail.

Time for some evasive measures. While still maintaining a safe 90 MPH, I cut across four lanes of traffic suddenly, without turning on my directional.

It’s ok, everyone in Florida drives like this. (spy tip; using your directional in Florida is actually a sign of weakness that could get your ass kicked by your fellow motorists.)

The car swerves across four lanes of traffic as well and continues to follow me in the right hand lane. Then, I see my shot. An exit is coming up, but it will require that I make a hard right hand turn into one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Orlando. I slow my speed to a laid back 75 MPH by slamming on my brakes and jump the median, flying off the highway and onto the off ramp.  (spy tip; no matter who you are, you will always look cool when your car is catching 4 feet of air)

My tires are squealing and smoke is coming up from the rear but I keep going. I fly through the first intersection on the OBT, screeching through a light that has just turned from yellow to red. I check my rearview.

All clear.

I slow my speed to a non conspicuous rate and am relieved that I lost my tail. I made a mistake by getting on the OBT. It is one long, straight stretch of road with virtually no turns to take. I stop at another intersection.

I spot a blue dot in my rearview mirror. Shit, the Honda Accord has returned! I turn my attention to the windshield. Double shit, a homeless guy is now washing my windshield! I toss a 5 out the window and slam my foot down on the accelerator, taking his squeegee with me.

I drive home using a network of back roads and toll free highways. I keep my turns random (spy tip: when you think you’re turning in a random direction, you’re usually just turning in the direction of your dominant hand).

After driving in a large right hand circle, I finally arrive at my apartment complex and pull up to the gates. (spy tip; Essa’s landlord does not like it when she plows through the gate using her car, rather than using the little remote he gave her.)

I ignore my angry landlord. No time for him, I have a car in hot pursuit! I pull into my parking spot and get out of my car. I look around.

All clear.

I recline on the hood and congratulate myself on a job well done. Just as I’m lighting a cigarette, a blue Accord pulls into my parking lot.

My friend Kay climbs out of the driver’s seat holding an empty casserole dish. “What the fuck is wrong with you! You were driving like a maniac!”

I turn my attention back to my cigarette. “I was pretending to be a superspy.”

She hands me the casserole dish. “Running from me returning your casserole dish?”

“Hey, I’m a freelance writer who works from home and has no hobbies or interests outside of TV. I’ll take my excitement where I can get it.”

Turning Off Comments

I think the title just about says it all. For at least the immediate future, I’m going to be turning off comments on my page. My explanation is about as clichéd as possible.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Right now, I’m not liking the direction my blog has taken. In the past, I wrote based on what I wanted to write. Now, I’m finding that two out of three of my blog posts are responding to comments on another blog I’ve written. I’m finding myself wasting time and getting into arguments in my comment section. I find myself concentrating on the feedback and not concentrating on the writing, like I should be doing.

I wish I could blame the direction my blog has taken on my hate mailers, but in all honesty, I can’t. By nature alone, I am an extremely volatile person. This causes me to not just respond to comments that irritate me, but to actively go looking for reasons to argue with people who haven’t done anything wrong.

If I keep going this way, I’m going to wind up alienating readers as well as my hate mailers and I just can’t do that. It’s time for me to go back to concentrating on my writing, not concentrating on what others think of my writing.

To my long time commenters, I apologize. You guys have been great and every nice thing you said made me look forward to getting your responses. I won’t be completely inaccessible. If you like, you can comment on my Facebook Fan page or reach me on Twitter. I also have a contact form page if you want to reach me by email.

It’s time for me to get back to doing what I wanted to do when I started this blog in the first place; writing. I feel like I will be a hell of a lot better at it by removing any outside distractions. So comments are now closed.

Yes, every internet marketing site in the world will say I’m wrong for doing this. But honestly, I wasn’t listening to those internet marketing pages in the first place. Why the hell would I start now?

Thanks to all those who commented in the past. I will not be deleting any comments. I will just be closing out the ability to respond and there will be no option to comment on future blog posts either. While it’s an extreme measure, I feel like it’s just best for me and where I want to go with this page at this time.

Thanks for understanding.

Essa Goes to the Auto Shop

The other night, during my beer run, I ran into a little problem with my car. I got in, turned the key and nothing happened.

I immediately jumped out of my car to check for the most common cause for this type of mechanical malfunction in the state of Florida. A serial killer may have removed my distributor cap while I was in the store, with the intent of forcing me to walk along a poorly lit roadway, so he could pick me up and turn me into a skin suit.

After eyeing every white male in his late 30’s, early 40’s in the parking lot with suspicion, and checking to see that I did indeed have a distributor cap, I came to a much more horrifying truth.

I wasn’t being stalked by a serial killer…I was having genuine car trouble.

In case you missed my article from when I attempted to purchase a car, you might have missed how much I hate dealing with anyone in the auto industry. This is because of how I look.

As I’ve said before, I usually like the way I look. I’ve been told that I look a bit like what Drew Barrymore would look like if she decided to become a French dominatrix. I’m ok with that. What I’m not ok with is people who work in the auto industry see my adorable blonde ass but don’t see that high level of sexiness. Instead, they see a dumb blonde with the word ‘sucker’ plastered across her forehead.

Unfortunately, I lack the upper body strength or tools necessary to perform my own extensive auto maintenance. I resigned myself to going to the auto repair shop and being treated like I was only slightly smarter than a retarded parakeet yet again.

With a bit of jimmy rigging, I managed to get the car started again. When I did, my check engine light came on. This immediately told me that the problem was not with my starter, nor with my battery, but with the connection my starter had to the engine.

What can I say? I’ve owned a virtual parade of piece of shit cars in my time. In that time, I’ve learned a hell of a lot. I’m like the Einstein of jalopies.

I arrived at the car shop and immediately told the guy behind the counter the problem, making it very clear that the battery was working fine (full electrical), the starter was not broken (the started doesn’t hook up to the computer, so the CE light wouldn’t have come on) and the car has had no issues while driving or idling, so it probably wasn’t a bad cam sensor.  In fact, I believed the problem to be quite simple.

I believed that the cable connection from the starter to the engine was corroded and needed to be replaced. I believed that this connection was causing an electrical surge that was causing the cam sensor to go into panic mode and shut down the starting process.

It was a pretty fucking good theory.

The man behind the counter listened with a half dazed look on his face as he stared at my tits. Finally he gave me a condescending smile and said “well, if you really want to know what’s wrong, we’ll have to hook the car up to the computer sweetheart. That will tell us if your starter is bad or not.”

I had to resist the urge to choke the guy. It wasn’t the fucking starter. I knew for a damn fact it wasn’t the starter because check engine lights don‘t fucking monitor starters!

Instead, I held my breath. As soon as he hooked it up to the computer, then he would know it wasn’t the fucking starter and I’d get my damn wire replaced. “Fine.”

“That will be $89.95.”

I nearly burst a vessel. “Are you fucking serious? $90 to hook a car up to a computer? It takes like twelve seconds to do that.”

“We have to charge for the full hour of labor.”

I’d had enough. “Come with me.” Surprisingly, the man followed me out of the shop, despite the fact that he was dangerously close to getting beaten to death with my crowbar. “I’m going to show you a magic trick.”

I plopped down in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition three times, from off to on, in rapid succession. Suddenly, and as if by magic, two codes popped up on my odometer.

That’s right people. If your check engine light ever comes on, you don’t need to hook your car up to a $90 computer. Instead, you just have to turn your ignition on, then off again, three times. At that point, your odometer will show you the error codes the engine is throwing.

I.e. your car will tell you exactly what is wrong with it…FOR FREE. Take those codes, look them up in your manual and you will have a general idea of what is really wrong with your car.

In my case, the cam and crank sensor codes came up. I made the idiot who followed me write them down. Then I told him what we were going to do about those codes, before he opened his idiotic mouth to try and upsell me.

“Don’t try to tell me both my camshaft position sensor and my crankshaft position sensor went bad at the same fucking time. That case is about as likely as an elephant falling out of the sky and crushing my engine. I don’t need a new cam sensor, I don’t need a new crankshaft and I don’t need a new starter. What I need is a new wire. Now, you can either charge me the $100 it will cost to replace that corroded fucking wire, or I can buy the wire myself for $14 and get a couple of Mexicans sitting there at Hope Depot to help me fix it, for $5 and a quick flash of the tits you’ve been staring at for the past 20 minutes.”

Long story short, I got my new wire. And wouldn’t you believe it, my car started just fine. But this only served to reinforce a lesson that one of my oldest mechanic friends taught me.

When you look like a dumb blonde, always know a bit about cars. I’m not saying that you need to know how to rebuild an engine, but you do need to know enough to not get fucked (in the bad way) while your getting your car fixed.

We as women created this image that allows mechanics to believe they can screw us over. I’m so sick of girly statements like ‘oh, cars are so confusing! My spacey little head can’t handle anything other than fashion tips and celebrity scandals. Math is tough!” (pouty face)  I’m tired of seeing women on the highway looking at a tire jack like it’s a piece off an alien spaceship. It’s basic god damn leverage. Change the fucking tire yourself and learn how your own fucking car works.

Because when you don’t, you have situations like mine, where I walk into an auto repair shop and everyone assumes I’m retarded. If I hadn’t been a little informed when I walked in, if I hadn’t known how to look up my own engine codes, I probably would have gotten taken for the price of a new starter and $90 for R2-D2 to look up the codes from my engine (because for $90, that computer better have been a celebrity).

Cars aren’t hard. They are basic science and basic science is nothing more than basic math. Check out these equations I made.

1 uninformed car owner + 1 broken car = 1 rich repair company

on the flip side

1 smoking hot blonde + a rudimentary understanding of auto repair = a repair bill based on the repairs actually needed + tax.

Now that’s the kind of math I like.

The Little Things That Make Me Furious

As you all know, I am a deeply sensitive, introspective type of person. I could spend hours watching a plastic bag flap around in the breeze, or tracking the path of a butterfly, or writing my own non-rhyming poetry about the trials and tribulations of my fellow man.

Sorry, just fucking around. In reality, I run on a dangerous mixture of anger, caffeine and disdain. And I have never written a poem that didn’t begin with ‘there once was a man from…”

In short, I’m about as deep as a toilet.

Because of this, I frequently find myself getting just plain furious about incredibly trivial things. Today, I’m going to share those things with you, instead of just cutting myself and drinking like usual.

1.             People who can’t figure out how to stand in line. Take a look at the below diagram to figure it out in case your confused.

 

If you’re still lost, or you’re facing the complication of a slightly slanted store, remember this if your forced to confront the challenge in standing in line; TAKE THE MOST LOGICAL FUCKING POSITION. Make sure there’s a reasonable amount of space both in front of, and behind you, without being ridiculous. If you’re standing next to the line, you’re not in the line. If there is enough room to park a VW bus between you and the next person in line, you are not in the line. If you are standing so close to me that I can feel your breath on my shoulder, you’re not in the line…and you’re about to get elbowed in the face.

2.             Hiccups. We can make a medication that will get a 90 year old hornier than an 18 year old, but modern medicine can’t find a reasonable way to stop a mild spasm of the diaphragm? Nothing annoys me like a case of the hiccups. People have suggested things to me like sugar and water or breathing into a paper bag. I have an alternative solution.

I run, full speed, at my kitchen table and slam my fucking chest into it as hard as I can. This accomplishes two things. It stops the hiccups and it reminds my body who is running the show. I consider a cracked sternum a small price to pay for that level of authority.

3.             Shower drains that can’t handle human hair. Being the crazy recluse that I am, I don’t get haircuts. My hair is somewhere around mid back and still growing. Because of this, I need a significant amount of drain cleaner shoved down the drain per week to keep from taking shower with water up to my knees. Again, modern technology and science, you can’t find a way to remedy this? I just did. Put a damn garbage disposal in my shower drain. Done.

4.             Unsolicited solicitors. For some reason, the religious ones get to squeak by the ‘no soliciting’ sign in my apartment complex because they’re not technically selling anything. I used to have them stopping by my door 2 to 3 times a week, strictly to tell me I’m going to hell (terrible marketing idea, BTW). Then, I put up this sign and all the door knocking stopped.

Not only have the religious types stopped knocking, I’ve also found this sign scares off Christmas Carolers, sales people and the Schwan’s delivery guy as well.  Good times.

5.             My dentist. I’m late for my dental exam and I’ve gotten at least 5 phone calls this week. Is my dentist that worried about my oral health, or has the dental industry had some kind of recession I’m unaware of? Dear dentist, I will make my fucking appointment when I feel like it, now stop calling me. (That is also my outgoing message on my phone). I’m half worried I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night to find her standing over me with a water pick and a spit cup.

That’s all I got for now, but I’m sure that more things will be pissing me off very soon. Stay tuned to my blog, or any Florida news channel (in case I finally just lose it) for future updates.

 

 

Helping You All Insult Me Better

It’s that time of month again. No, not my period. That stopped coming awhile ago. I think something might be seriously wrong with me.

Anywho, it’s that time of month where I clear out my spam box and scan the hate comments I get. Have to say, it’s a smaller haul for the month of July. My haters must be at the beach or jerking off to more internet porn than usual. As I’m going through these hate comments, I have to say I noticed a common theme. None of these comments are hurting my feelings. I think I might be dead inside.

Maybe that’s why my period stopped.

So, in the interest of helping out my haters (yes, I am aware I’m a fucking saint), I’m going to give some more helpful tips and tricks to make you hate me just a little bit better.

To start off, here are some of the things that just don’t seem to work.

 

#1 – Comments that indicate I’m petty, immature, close minded or rude.

While you’re at it, why don’t you call me out on having blue eyes and being right handed? My point is this, it’s not really an insult if I know its true. I am absolutely petty, immature, close minded and rude. I’ve said so more than once. Pointing out the obvious isn’t insulting me. It’s just pointing out the obvious.

Oh, and BTW? Do you know what else is petty, immature, close minded and rude? Sending a stranger hatemail on the internet.  Welcome to the club haters.

 

#2 – Comments that indicate I’m going to die alone, never get a man, am a shriveled up spinster, etc., etc., etc.

You mean I’ve been knitting all those doilies for my hope chest for nothing!

Look people, I’m a bi-polar borderline alcoholic who has apparently gone through menopause at the ripe old age of 33. I think we can all agree that this does not bode well for my romantic future. To be fair, I’ve never really had a romantic past. Despite the fact that I’m smoking hot and insanely good in bed, I have never really been in anything that I would consider a serious relationship. There is a reason for this.

I hate people. I am one of the most solitary human beings on the planet. Whenever I watch a movie or a show about prison, and some inmate gets sent to ‘the hole’ or solitary, whatever the hell they call it, I don’t feel sympathy. I feel jealous. If I was in prison, I’d want to be in solitary all the damn time!

Because of this desire to be alone all the time, I make a poor match for any human being who insists on speaking, breathing or doing anything that doesn’t involve fucking me and then leaving. I am not relationship material. I’m cool with that.

Also, I know for a fact that I’m not going to die alone. I’m going to drown to death while having a star studded pool orgy in my Hollywood Hills mansion in the year 2045. Steve Buscemi will attempt to revive me by giving me mouth to mouth, but his efforts will be in vain, because my lungs will have already collapsed due to a twelve pack a day smoking habit.

You did your best Steve, you did your best.

 

#3 – Comments that indicate my opinion is not important or that no one cares about my opinion.

This one might hurt, if it weren’t for the paradox. See, by commenting on one of my articles and telling me that you don’t care about my opinion, you’re actually indicating you care very much about my opinion. The fact that what I wrote upset you enough to respond with hate mail actually indicates you care very deeply .

Ain’t paradoxes a bitch?

 

#4 – Comments that indicate that I’m ugly, fat or somehow deformed.

You people realize that there are almost no pictures of me on this site, right? This isn’t a modeling portfolio page. I’m not one of those chicks who feels the need to post a picture of herself every twelve seconds. So how the hell would you know if I was fat, ugly, hunchbacked, etc.?

I own a mirror. I know what I look like and I like how I look. That’s all that matters. I’m not trying to make a career out of my looks, hence the lack of pictures. I’m making a career out of my writing, and no one gives a fuck what authors look like.

I’m still hot enough to get laid. When my looks eventually do fade, I’ll be rich enough to pay people to fuck me. I’d say I’m ok with that.

 

#5 – Grammar corrections.

Oh no! Not a dangling participle!  If you’ll excuse me, I need to go kill myself now.

Really, grammar corrections? Most of the time, written by someone who spells the majority of the words in their post wrong. Look people, as long as what I’m writing is still decipherable as the English language, I’m fine with it. If I notice an error, I might go back and fix it. I might not. No one is paying me to write this page so I’m not paying to have it edited.

So, those things don’t seem to be working when it comes to insulting or upsetting me. As an alternative, if you want to send me hate mail, maybe you should try doing something that would really bother me. For some suggestions;

I really don’t like clowns. I don’t know what you could do with that but there has to be a way to upset me with clowns somehow. Be creative.
I’m uncomfortable with the size of my nipples. Seriously, they’re really big. Like bigger than a silver dollar big. Maybe slip in an insult about that?
I’ve been told that I have a lot of ‘masculine’ energy. There has to be a she-male joke in there somewhere.

So there you go. I’ve given you topics to avoid and I’ve given you some suggestions for future hate mail. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Now get to work haters. Write me something really scathing. Send it to me as a clown telegram. That will get me for sure.