Essa Alroc's Blog, page 35

10 Things I Demand All Novelists Stop Doing Immediately

So I got started on what I thought would be a halfway decent book and wound up, yet again, throwing it out the window before I was finished. Then I immediately went to get it because it was on my Kindle. I really need to stop throwing that thing out the window.

If I’m ever going to enjoy reading again, I need to make a plea to every author in the literary community. There are several things I am seeing over and over and over and over again and it is driving me insane. So the following in my list of ten demands to every author out there with an expectation that all aforementioned ( no idea what that word means) items will cease and desist immediately.

If your heroine is over 30 and did not grow up with those Russian tunnel kids living underground, she has had more than three sexual partners. That’s all there is to it.  No more virgins or practically virgins. Being sexually experienced does not somehow decrease a woman’s value. This isn’t an Al-Qaeda training camp. Women have more to offer than their virginity and cooking abilities.

Your hero is not a billionaire. You know why? Because billionaires look like this.

50 Shades would have been way less popular with this guy in the lead.

There are currently 412 billionaires in the United States. There are only 1210 in the entire world. If I remove those who are over 90, dead, women, married or so hideous you can only screw with the lights off, there are like four left. Surprisingly, every book I read recently has a billionaire hero who looks like Julian McMahon. It just doesn’t jive. If you want to make your hero rich, just make him rich. Don’t suspend reality by making him a billionaire too.

Stop with the heroines who are clumsy and dress like bag ladies. Beautiful girls do not go traipsing around in sweatpants and sneakers. You know who does? The girls with six kids trailing after them at WalMart. They have an excuse; they have six kids. If your heroine is single and hot, she should dress like it and not like a color blind immigrant worker. Her dressing poorly isn’t telling me that she’s ‘above all those material trappings’. Instead, it’s making me think that she’s lazy and has questionable personal hygiene.

Stop with the mothers who are harassing their daughters (the heroine) to get married. Most girls from Gen X and up can’t relate. Why? Because all our mothers are divorced baby boomers who only got married because they got knocked up felt obligated to. Now, they warn us off of marriage, unless that marriage is to one of the previously mentioned billionaires. When I told my mom I was going to marry my babies daddy, did she squeal with glee? No, she shook her head and responded ‘it’s your funeral.’ Mothers have gotten a lot smarter since the 1950’s. They know their daughters are more than marrying breed stock, so quit giving them a bad rap.

Speaking of parents, do they all have to be emotionally distant, flighty, abusive or otherwise fucked up? My parents are perfectly normal. Does that now make me uninteresting?

All the secondary male characters in your story do not have to be obsessed with the main female character. They also don’t have to be nefarious rapists and stalkers. There’s enough of those in the world without shoving them into your book too.

Stop making the heroine’s best friend chubby. Chubby girls have man troubles too. They don’t just sit around talking about dieting and bitching about their weight while stuffing their faces. The majority of women in this country are not size 6. You can make a story about them without making it about their weight.

If you choose to have a gay secondary character, please stop with the caricatures of gay men who give the heroines makeovers while calling them ‘girlfriend’. I’m not even a gay man and I find it insulting.

Stop giving your heroines money problems that only the hero can rescue them from. Women are all grown up now. We have checking accounts, college degrees and 401k’s. Not all of us are an inch away from financial ruin. Those of us who are would do better to get a second job, rather than taking money from a man in exchange for sex. There’s a word for that. What is it again? Oh yeah, prostitution.

Finally, a shout out to the best sellers out there who just finished a series. Congrats. Now listen. WE DO NOT want to read the same series again told from the POV of the hero. That’s just f’ing lazy. We already know the story, but now we get to read how he felt about it. Oh, yay, that sounds awesome (insert eyeroll). Just write something else already.

Finally, if you all still can’t get it, why don’t you head over to my Strangely Sober page and pick up a copy. Let the best writer who no one is reading show you how it’s done.

 

 

Essa Waxes Patriotic

God damn it, I’m glad to be American.

To get started, I’m not the flag waving, anthem singing, soldier sniffing type. I am fully aware that America has its problems and I frequently threaten to move to Canada because of them.

But, if you’re going to be born with a vagina, America is probably one of the better places to do it.

Kyrgyzstan is probably one of the worst

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This video is a documentary of a charming little custom called ‘Bride Kidnapping’. In a basic rundown, a group of men scour the city looking for a girl to snatch off the street. Once they find her, they drag her back to their home, where a group of female relatives try to get the ‘bride scarf’ on her head. If the girl accepts the scarf, then the marriage is deemed binding. While the practice has been outlawed, it is mainly ignored by law enforcement due to the communities’ deep belief in ‘tradition.’

Weirdly, 95% of the girls accept their fate and marry a virtual stranger. It might seem like a high statistic, however, most of these girls are bred to be obedient from birth.

Which leads me to question; how fucking brainwashed would I have been if I was born there? Would I have stood my ground and said no, like the bad ass second girl, Ainagul, did? Or would I have fallen into 95% and just gone along with it to avoid bringing shame on my family?

Then you’d all be reading a boring ass blog filled with bread recipes and sheep herding tips.

Instead, I am a fully westernized, happily unmarried, American girl who gets her bread from a bag, like normal people. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a sheep, and like Ainagul, I’m definitely not one. If a dude tried to pull that shit on me, all he would get is a face full of pepper spray and a nut kick that would require testicle retraction surgery.

God damn it, it feels good to be an American. Hmph, maybe I am a patriot.

Oh, say can you see…

It Is So Hard to Find Good Help These Days

By help, I mean a decent drug dealer.

All right, let’s go ahead and check this post off the list of pages that will make Freshly Pressed.

I think we all know that I’ve been known to partake in a little illegal activity from time to time. I won’t bother trying to deny it. I need it. It’s medicinal. For what condition? Um, chronic bitch syndrome?

Which can only be treated with chronic.

Anyway, as anyone else who is in my position knows, it can be very hard to find a decent connection, especially if you live in a red state. In Florida, the possession of an amount less than 20 grams (not even enough to make decent brownies) can get you tossed in jail for 1 year and fined $1000.

Thank god they have that law on the books. Its keeps all the dangerous, slightly sleepy, paranoid pot smokers off the streets…so we have room for all the murderers and rapists.

I always run into the same set of problems when looking for a new connection;

My connection is never direct. It’s always a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy. So whenever I call my friend of a friend, he has to make 47 phone calls as well. In the time it takes me using this method, I could drive to California, get a dispensary card, go to the dispensary, pick up and drive home.

My drug dealers always want to screw me…and I don’t mean out of money. I’m not saying I’m a beauty queen or anything, but when you’re dealing weed out of your mom’s basement, generally, you’re not getting a lot of interaction with women. So I show up, money in hand, and have to deal with some pasty drug dealer putting his hands all over my leg. At which point, I have to respond, ‘I’m not going to fuck you for weed. It’s not crack for Christ sakes.’

I can’t go to my friends for help. Why? Because they’re coming to me instead. If you can believe it, I’m the badass in my group. My friends are all closet smokers whose ‘one joint at a time’ purchases would get them laughed out of any decent drug den.

Someday, when my writing career takes off, I’m going to pack up and move to California, where I can pick up without all this hassle. For now, I have to go call my dealer, so he can play 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon with my next stash.

Based on how long it takes, he may actually be getting it from Kevin Bacon.

Oh, I Forgot to Tell You All How Awesome I Am

August has been a very activity filled month. I published my first book, got put on final, super double secret probation at work (they really mean it this time), got into my freelancing groove, started my sequel to my novel, marketed myself like the dirty, dirty marketing whore I am  and finally…won two delightful awards for my fantastical blogging.

Yes indeed, my lyrical prose do bring all the boys to the yard.

The first was presented to me by a crazy girl, living in a small studio, doing lots of things. Many of those things make me laugh my ass off. Head on over there and check Malinka out. http://malinkasstudio.wordpress.com/

The next was presented to me by Ms. Rachel Greene at http://mytiarascrooked.com/2012/08/13/blogger-awards/. She gave me the beautiful blogger award. At first, I assumed that she was talking about my tits, then I realized she’s never seen them so she must be talking about my writing!

Now, it is up to me to grace the next few fantastical bloggers with my own awards. My only problem is, most of my awesome blogger friends are awesome enough to have already received said awards. So I said fuck the numbers and awarded as I saw fit.

My Versatile Blogger Nominees in order of whom I predict to die first

http://chiefwritingwolf.com/ – He got a joke about milk and a Katrina rememberance post on the same page. If that’s not versatile, I don’t know what is.

http://millenniumconjectures.com/ – Pipes and sailing. He is the old spice man.

My Beautiful Blogger nominees, in no order at all because I have ADD

Beth and Beyond http://thequirkycreative.wordpress.com/. She’s finding herself, same as me, and I don’t know whats more beautiful than that.

Fortyteen Candles at http://fortyteencandles.com/awards/. I can’t wait until I’m fortyteen. She makes it look awesome.

I know I’m probably supposed to share something personal about myself, but I feel like you guys know so much about me already. You know that I’m really bad at my job, that I’m a borderline alcoholic pot smoker whose dog watches her pee, that I’m, not in a relationship because all the aforementioned pot smoking has killed my sex drive. I’m really out of interesting facts.

Oh, wait, in grade school, I met the retarded kid from “Life Goes On”. To date, he’s been my only celebrity interaction, besides a very brief, very drunken intro to Snooki when she was partying in FL.

So there you have it. If I’ve nominated you, collect your award and name your own nominees. The ball is in your court now.

Also, if you really want to win, head over to my “Strangely Sober” page. I’m currently hosting a giveaway contest on Goodreads where I will be giving away 5 paperback copies of my book at the end of September.

Dear Spammers, Let Me Help You Out

Today, I finally cleaned out my junk comments from various scam artists trying to spam my beautifully written blogs with offers for Viagra, sex bots, money making pyramid schemes and acai berries.

Akismet rocks. Not only did it catch all the spammers, it also kept out a few comments from my more grammatically challenged friends. I’m not a stickler for grammar rules or anything, but if four of the words in your seven word sentence are spelled wrong, I really don’t want anyone know I associate with you.

Anyway, while I was deleting all these comments, I came up with a new idea for a business venture. A new facet to my freelancing business. If you pay me enough, I will get people to read your spam messages and click on your links. How? Simple. I know how to market to idiots.

See, here’s where you guys are going wrong. Most of you give the same generic, obvious spam message.

Dear Webmaster, I very much enjoyed your opinion of above subject. It was very informative to my opinion and I will return often for much well written information. Please check out my pages so you may make more hits and money for your blog about information.

You know how I know that’s bullshit? I’ve never given valuable information in my life. The only things I give on this site are angry rants based on statistics that I made up in my head because they sounded right. If you ever walk away from my site feeling informed, please contact me immediately so I can delete any information that I’m providing that may be remotely accurate.

You spammers need my help. Your target marketing is all wrong. You’re just spamming everyone when you should be focusing on idiots. The best way to focus on idiots? Chain mail.

Its all right spammers; I got your back. Below, please find a sample of some of my work.

 ***STOP DONT READ THIS***

 

NOW IT IS TOO LATE AND YOU CANT GO BACK. YOU WILL RECEIVE A RUSTY TROMBONE FROM THE LUV OF UR LIFE BY MIDNITE TONITE IF YOU FOLLOW THE STEPS BELOW.

1.SPIN AROUND TWELVE TIMES WHILE HOPPING ON ONE FOOT AND CHANTING THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFES NAME.

2. STARE DIRECTLY INTO A 100 WATT BULB FOR NO LESS THAN FORTY FIVE MINUTES. WHEN U CLOSE YOUR EYES, YOU WILL STILL SEE THE LITEBULB! THE RETINAL DAMAGE PROVES ITS WORKING!

3. CLICK HERE AND SEND ACIA BERRIES TO 15 OF YOUR FRIENDS. DON’T WORRY, IT WONT COST YOU A PENNY UNTIL THE FREE 15 MINUTE TRIAL OFFER IS UP.

THIS WORKS. I PROMISE. IN FACT, U SHOULD CLICK HERE TO SENT THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE SOME NATURAL MALE ENHANCERS FOR THE WEDDING NITE.

PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THIS. IF YOU FAIL TO PASS THIS ON VERY BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN. JUSTIN BEIBERS HAIR WILL FALL OUT AND GLEE WILL BE CANCELED. ONE DIRECTION WILL BREAK UP. I WONT GET ANY AFFILAITE SALES FOR ACAI BERRIES AND VIAGRA. U WANT ACAI BERRIES. THEY WARD OFF VAMPIRES! UNLESS YOU LIKE VAMPIRES! IF THAT’S THE CASE, EDWARD HIMSELF WILL SHOW UP IN UR BEDROOM.

FOR EXTRA SUPER GOOD LUCK, U SHOLD PAST THIS ON EVERYONES WALL IN FB, LINK TO IT ON TWITTER AND HAVE A 15 FOOR BILLBOARD PRINTED UP.

IT WURKS!!!!:)JJJJJJ

 

Let me explain where I went right on this one spammers.

-          Stupid people love caps lock. It makes everything look important.

-          To gain credibility, I told people NOT to read it at the beginning. That made them WANT to read it.

-          I didn’t waste time with spelling.

-          I got your victims to spin around and stare into a light bulb, which disoriented them enough to go to your website and blinded them enough to not be able to read the fine print on your “free trial offers”.

-          I created a sense of urgency and mentioned vampires.

 

If you are interested in my services, please click on this link to get some natural male enhancement products. Don’t worry. They’re free…for the first 15 minutes.

 

The Good Old Days Weren’t Always That Good

The other night my friend, Sassy Filipina*, went on a date with a man she met on Plenty of Fish.

That was probably her first mistake.

Anywho, halfway through her romantic evening at Red Lobster, the internet dude she met online started going off on women’s lib. He tossed out that old divorce statistic that magazines regularly drop in order to scare chicks into getting married.

According to him, 80% of all marriages end in divorce…and that’s all the fault of the women’s lib movement.

God I wish I had been there to punch him in the face. Twice. Then once in the throat for good luck.

His main point of contention? Women don’t allow men to be men anymore. These words were spewed from a Navy reservist who probably clears 22k a year. Just to be clear, Navy reservist, you can’t afford a woman. The best you can afford is a 3rd world country girl with bad teeth who doesn’t know any better.

Back in the day that this asshole so fondly remembered, women didn’t have the option of working outside the home. They stayed home, raised children, cooked meals and polished their floors with highly flammable paste wax while inhaling the asbestos from the walls their husbands bought for them at a discount. Then came WW2.

Men went off to fight while women took over the jobs that the men had previously held. We learned a little something called independence. We learned what it was like to make our own money, how to do things better. And we liked it.

We made our own money so we got to make our own decisions.

But the men continued on acting as though nothing had changed. They worked all day at the office, then went home pissed off because their slippers were missing and the dishes weren’t done. Their wives weren’t home to take care of them, because they were at the office making money. Trying to earn enough to buy a house that wasn’t made of paper. But they were still expected to treat their husbands like giant, boring children.

Suddenly the ladies of this world became responsible for taking on both the housework, and the work-work. That ain’t cool. So we went ahead and invented community property too.

Hello divorce.

So yeah, a bunch of pampered men lost out. They wanted their wives paychecks, but they still wanted the same fucking maid service they got from buying a wife.

Fast forward to Sassy Philippine’s date. Here’s the thing Navy boy, I’m super cool with letting you make every life decision for me…as long as your supporting my ass while your doing it. The second a check with my name on it gets deposited into our joint checking account, expect a little feedback on your management style.

Judging from the fact that you’re yearly paycheck is 1/3 of my yearly salary, I’m already assuming we’re going to have some problems.

I feel bad for married women. Why? Because most of the ones I know are miserable. They work a regular job, same as their husbands, but when they come home, instead of a whiskey and a pair of slippers, they get a pile of laundry, a bunch of needy kids and a sink full of dishes. Men still seem to think that the fact that they work 8 hours a day negates them from all household responsibilities, while the women get another 8 hours of work.

I’m calling bullshit.

Make a decision men. Either you get a little housemaid to cater to your every demand, or you get a little help in paying the bills. In case you’re wondering, we keep the extra sponges under the sink.

The Mrs. after my name is not enough of a status symbol to keep me satisfied working 40 hours a week at work, and another 40 hours a week at home. If people want to call me a dried up old spinster because of that, that’s totally cool. I think deep down we all know that really means that I’m not a fucking idiot.

Magazines and movies try to trick us. Get married otherwise it proves that nobody wants you. You’re ugly. You’re boring. You’re too old to be single. Find your soul mate so you can wash his socks. Stop being single and have babies.

Fuck you. I’ll be single as long as I damn well please. Most likely forever, because I don’t make dinner. I eat ramen noodles in my underwear while I’m standing over my sink. It’s pretty fucking awesome. And I’m still cool, so eat me.

Unless men have stopped doing that too?

So yeah, Navy boy, we’re not stopping you from being men. You all stopped that a long time ago. Either start paying all the bills by yourself or show a little appreciation.

Until that time, my ovaries are closed until further notice.

 

*yeah, I’m back to racial stereotypes

A Solution for the Undecided Voter

So I recently did an article for Yahoo! News, and I must say that it was the finest thing ever written. My article was in the political arena. Despite the fact that the election is 3 months away, I still manage to be undecided about who I’m voting for. I am suffering from the standard libertarian dilemma. The republican candidate is far too socially conservative while the democratic candidate is far too fiscally liberal. Here’s the thing. I want a candidate that is going to allow me to live my life and I don’t want them sending a bunch of IOU’s to China in the process. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is.

I’m for gay marriage. I’m pro-choice. I’m for the legalization of marijuana, as well as a whole host of other drugs. Included in those drugs is birth control. Not only do I think that all forms of birth control should be available at large, I also believe that the government should drive down the street in high tech vans quipped with blow dart guns. Every time they see a welfare mom with 6 kids trailing behind her, no job prospects in site, I think they should nail her in the neck with a hefty dose of Depo-Provera.

Seriously, those people don’t need to be breeding.

As far as I’m concerned, anything you choose to do to your body is no problem whatsoever until it starts to impinge on my personal liberty. The second I have to pay for your drug rehab, your fourth kid, your PTSD and any other bullshit your trying to claim having to keep from going to work, I get annoyed. I am the political equivalent of ‘don’t poke the bear.’ Sleepy and happy when left on my own, to do my own thing without government interference.

Then these fuckers went and poked me. Growl.

Get out of my life government. I don’t need you. Oh, wait, you’re offering me insurance now? Great, let’s do the math.

Last year, I went to the doctor 1 time. Total cost? = $239.75

Instead of just paying out of pocket, I paid my employer 137.52 per month for insurance coverage. Total yearly cost? = $1650.24

Awesome government, I just paid $1600 for a doctor’s visit. Thanks for your fucking help. In the future, can you just stay the hell out of it? Apparently, whenever you get involved in my life, simple things start costing me 1600% more. Thank you democratic party. No wonder everybody thinks your retarded.

Then the conservatives step in. No gay marriage. Why? Well, because the church, that they are supposed to keep separated from your state, tells them it’s wrong. Well conservative, if you’re so afraid that getting gay married is going to send you to hell, I would strongly suggest not marrying a member of your same gender. Leave everyone else alone. Love is a personal choice, not a political platform.

Oh, and Chic-a-Filet, the only opinion I care about from you is the one that involves the appropriate way to fry a chicken. As for moral opinions, I’ll stick to my own moral compass and I’ll thank you to stick to preparing shitty fast food. Seriously, nobody cares what you think.

The way I see it, both parties have it wrong. I’ve gone through their websites. I’ve read their views on everything and it all pulls together like one of those sailboat pictures that you can’t see until you step a few feet away from it and have a shot of tequila.

We have no choice. We must elect them both.

They don’t just cross party lines…they obliterate them.

I know you all think I’m crazy, but I think I have a great point. Everytime Obama tries to pull out his American Express to cover some kind of scientific study on the effectiveness of dill pickles on depression, Romney will be there to say ‘oh, hell no.”

Every time Romney gets ready to send his SWAT team of Mormons into to some unsuspecting gay couples bedroom, Obama will be there to say “not cool man, not cool.”

I think we need to force them to work together, much like some kick ass buddy cop team that needs to work together to get things done in the end. Sure, Obama’s an idealist, given to seeing the best in people. But then his pessimistic partner Romney is there to reel him back in and force him to see reality. Then, when Romney is trying to blow his brains out “Lethal Weapon” style, Obama is there to tell him things get better and he’s really going to wind up marrying  smoking hot Rene Russo.

Ugh, I’m getting to old for this shit.

But whatever, I’m still pretty convinced that my vote wont matter much. In the end, it will get buried under a bunch of votes from people who voted based on the commercials they see or the internet chain-mail they received. Yet another American president will be elected based on who’s tallest and I don’t know why I give a shit anymore.

Fuck this. I’m moving to Canada.

My Dog Is Giving Me a Bladder Infection

Oh God, the SEO hits I’m going to get from that title alone…

Before all your minds wander to the filthiest place possible, let me explain. See, I am what I like to call ‘bathroom phobic’. It has nothing to do with the germs. I’m cool with germs. I can handle those. It has a lot more to do with what happens when someone walks in while I’m using the bathroom.

Everything stops.

This might seems a little strange, because I can write an entire blog about it and have no problem at all. In fact, I regularly admit things far more private. However, there is just something so off-putting about someone hearing me go to the bathroom or even worse, seeing me do it.

I blame it on a very traumatic experience in the military when the restroom I walked into had no walls. It was just a bunch of holes on a bench, all grouped together. Seriously, I’m not making this up. Just one giant room with a bunch of holes to pee in…and girls were actually squatting over them. I felt like I had walked into a very organized zoo.

I guess we can see why I didn’t reenlist.

Anyway, for years, I’ve been working with it. I wait until the stalls at work are completely deserted before I go to the bathroom. I have my own bathroom at home. I hold it when I’m in public unless the bathroom is one single stall. For the most part, it was working quite nicely.

Then I got a dog.

The view from my toilet

Ever since I got Sophia, the same scene has played out every time I get up to use the restroom.

Me: Well, while this commercial break is coming on I guess I’ll just…

Sophia: (Ears perking up) Where you going? Can I come? I’m just gonna follow you anyway. Maybe sit on the rug you keep in front of the bathtub and stare you dead in the eye the whole time your in there. Hey, why are you closing the door?

Me: Sophia, I don’t need your help. Just go play with your fucking stuffed squirrel or something.

Sophia (scratching at the door): What are you doing in there? Can I help? (scratch, scratch, scratch)  Oh my god, you’ve left forever! I have no sense of time and whenever you leave the room, I’m certain your never coming back.  Maybe if I sniff at the door while I scratch it.

Me: I can’t go with you listening!! Go away!!

Sophia: I can hear you, but I can’t see you (scratch, scratch, scratch). Oh god, I’m going to starve to death. I was always afraid this would happen. I knew you were the flaky type when you got me at the shelter. I just always assumed that you’d go before me and I could live by eating your corpse while I waited for the medical examiner to haul you away. (scratch, scratch, scratch) Can you hear me in there? I’m freaking out!

Me: Aw, fuck it. (flush)

So yeah, its been a difficult year. At the same time, I love my dog, even if she is a pee watching pervert, so getting rid of her is not an option. I guess I’m going to have to live with it.

Does anyone know a doctor who would install a catheter on a voluntary basis?

There’s a Reason Critic Rhymes With Prick (sorta)

If I’m going to be in the business, I really have to develop a thicker skin.

Here’s the thing. I don’t pan other indie writers, even if their work sucks. I don’t write criticisms of products or books…unless I have a personal vendetta against the author…or unless the person if famous. As far as I’m concerned, once you start making $10,000,000 for being lucky, you open yourself up to criticism. That’s just karma.

What I don’t do is go hunt down an unknown, debut author and shit all over their work in order to market my crappy book design business.

Where is this coming from? Well, it wasn’t even from a review of my book. If fact, my critic didn’t even read it. It was from a review of my books cover.

See, I made the mistake of googling my own book, just to see if it got any mentions because I’m doing a free book giveaway tomorrow. I was super excited when I saw it was listed on someone’s website. Hoping for a review, instead, I got a slap in the face when I saw it was listed on a book designers website under “Lousy Book Covers,” with a snarky ‘in other words, not drunk enough’ posted underneath it.

First of all, if you’re going to make fun of the title, let me offer some better suggestions;

Strangely Sober? Nobody would have designed this sober
Well, the ‘Strangely’ part is right
If this book was a woman I met in a bar, I would chew my own arm off in order to escape it in the morning
What kind of name is Essa Alroc? Its sound like what happens when you randomly type a bunch of letters on your keyboard without looking.

The guy even notes the following. “Bonus! If I’ve featured your book cover here, I’ll design a FREE ebook cover for you! See my portfolio @ imnotgivingyouanybusinessbecauseihateyou.com”

Wait, you mean I won! Awesome. You want to spit in my coffee tomorrow then offer to buy me a new one as well? Way to drum up business dickhead.

I am so tempted to create a new page called ‘shitty blogs’, post his page on there, then throw in an offer to provide content that doesn’t suck. But I won’t. Instead, I’ll bitch about it in this blog and forget all about it tomorrow.

Here’s the thing. I LOVE my cover. It was designed for me by an incredibly talented artist and it was selected out of six other options, unanimously, by a group of other people (industry people, not my family reunion) who actually read the book. He captured my characters perfectly, he worked incredibly hard on it and he did just what I wanted with it. I wanted it to be original. I wanted it to be memorable, and my guy did it perfectly. I’m not going to list his link here without his permission, but if he would like me to, I will go ahead and add it in on his say so. His portfolio is dark, complex and beautifully orchestrated and I am proud of the cover he created for me.

I also plan on having him do the next one for me as soon as I’m finished with the sequel.

So whatever, rant over. I needed to get this off my chest so I could work on my book without the whole ‘why bother? Everyone is going to hate it anyway,’ feeling hanging over my head. Like I said, this is probably going to be the first in a long line of criticisms and if I’m planning on doing this for a living, I’m going to have to learn to roll with it.

I still reserve the right to bitch in a later blog about crappy reviews I get from people who have actually read the book.

Click here to leave me a terrible review on Amazon

It’s Like People Are Trying to Piss Me Off

Well, the Wellbutrin wore off, thank god, and I’m back to being the same old cynical bitch you all know and love. And because I am such a cynical bitch, its time for me to address another problem directly related to America’s stupidity.

The chain posting.

I was on a Facebook page related to breast cancer awareness. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a joiner or a charitable type. I was mainly trying to figure out what “Breast Cancer Awareness” really means. I mean, I’m aware of a lot of things. I’m aware of the fact that I have a large amount of upper arm hair for a woman. I’m aware of the fact that black licorice serves no useful purpose. Being aware of something doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it. Which led me to the question. If this page is just for awareness of breast cancer, does that mean the hoster just wants people to know it exists? Are people for some reason unsure whether they are for or against breast cancer?

Of course, per usual, I am less than 100 words in and completely off topic. Back to my point. I saw that idiotic little gem plastered on the page not once, not twice, but by four different women. And I was horrified. Seriously, I can’t believe there are four women, over the age of 12, on this planet, that somehow think that spamming someone else’s page with an idiotic, error ridden chain email is going to result in them meeting the love of their life.

Hey, ladies? Wanna know why you haven’t met the love of your life yet? Because you spend all your free time passing chain letters on to equally idiotic women instead of slapping on some makeup, leaving the house and actually meeting the love of your life.

Also, if you’re spending all your time in the Breast Cancer Awareness chat room, you’re unlikely to meet any dudes. Unless they’re pervy types who are offering free breast exams in the back of their windowless vans.

Can anyone reasonably believe that saying the name of their ‘crush’ three times in a row will somehow result in them getting married and having a million idiotic little babies together? You know when I say the name of my crush three times in a row? During the orgasm I’m having when I’m fucking him.

Because I don’t waste my time sending chain emails. Instead, I get shit done.

The person who created this stupid little email clearly has no mystical power. They don’t even have the power to press the spell check option or reach their pinky slightly to the left to turn their friggin caps lock off. Maybe you shouldn’t be taking advice from them.

I also love the way the author threw in the whole mystical clincher too. “Press the F6 button and your crushes name will appear”. Neat. Apparently, I’m in love with my mother. On most computers, the F6 presets to the “back” button on your browser. This will result in you returning to the page you were previously on. In this case, the author of this dumb little email assumes (probably accurately) that you are totally cyber stalking some poor innocent dude and his page was the last page you were on.  I have to give them props on that clever twist.  

Of course, now I’m going to have horribly bad luck. Why, a man in New Mexico failed to pass that email on and he got cancer two days later. A woman in South Dakota ignored it and her pet weasel exploded. An insanely hot writer in OrlandoFlorida spent twenty minutes making fun of it on her blog and …anything bad that happens to her afterwards will be completely fucking coincidental.

I believe in the power of energy. I believe that there are forces at work in the universe that operate in ways we don’t understand. I even believe in the power of positive thinking. What I don’t believe are emails written by some idiot with far too much time on their hands who are, at best, fucking with people, and at worst, trying to insert a tracking cookie into your computer.

In the computer world, they’re called “crackers”. They’re not intelligent and are not able to write sophisticated enough code to actually ‘hack’ anything, and thereby have not earned the title of ‘hacker’. Instead, crackers rely on the innate stupidity of far too many people to get you to open an attachment, or a virus encoded email, and forward it to all of your friends. That was the original goal of chain email.

It’s not to find you the love of your life. It’s not to help you reunite with your ex-boyfriend. It’s to gain control of your computer and ghost from your IP address so they can send fake check to more idiotic Americans. They do it in chain email format because only idiots pass them along.

So no, the chain email isn’t going to work. You’re not going to meet the love of your life by saying someone’s name a bunch of times or pressing F6 on the computer. You’re going to meet the love of your life by leaving the fucking house and meeting people. So stop with the plastering of chain emails on other peoples pages. It’s annoying.

I can also personally guarantee you that if you forward one to me, you’re getting a Trojan Horse in return…and I know you’re just dumb enough to open it.