Essa Alroc's Blog, page 5

Idiots…Idiots All Around Me

I have a theory. I think at any given moment, at least in the state of Florida, you are surrounded by at least ten idiots. From the idiots who can’t handle the lofty task of flipping on a turn signal, to the idiots who’s retirement plan is nothing more than ‘buy lotto tickets,’ we are all swimming in a veritable pool of idiots.

I want to drain the god damn pool.

Today, I got stuck behind what I like to call a “Mr. Nice Guy” in traffic. Traffic was heavy, and Mr. Nice Guy decided to slam on his brakes so he could let not one, not two, but four people in front of him.

I had to wonder, do the idiots that do this realize that while they’re making four dudes happy, they’re also pissing off the 50 fucking people behind them? No joke, while this dude was thinking he’d done his good dead for the day, he had no idea that I was behind him, fantasying about strangling him with the alternator belt that’s about to snap on my car.

Idiots.

Idiots are the reason that bleach comes with the warning ‘do not drink’. Idiots are the reason kids have to wear helmets for everything from rollerblading, to jerking off. Idiots are the reason Nickelback is still touring.

And us smart people, we’re enabling the idiots. We’re the ones who put the warnings on bleach in the first place. We’re the ones who design the helmets these idiot kids wear. We’re the ones that teach these idiots how to use a computer so they can buy those Nickelback tickets. Half the problem is the fact that idiots don’t understand sarcasm, so they don’t know they’re being idiots. Let me give you an example.

The other night, I got an email from a webmaster who wanted me to write some articles for him. But he didn’t want to pay me for these articles. As he pointed out, because he was such an impressive webmaster, the exposure alone would make me as a freelance writer.

The subjects he wanted me to write about? Penny stocks and anal bleaching. Not joking, this really happened. Here’s how I responded.

Dear (name redacted)

Thanks for contacting me about your project. It’s super ironic, because I actually don’t do this for a living. It’s a hobby. See, I actually write articles about penny stocks and anal bleaching just for the fun of it. Just recently, I was forced to shut down my website “Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole”, which was a website for enthusiasts of the ‘pump and dump’ on two different levels. I thought I was going to have to get rid of all the articles I wrote on the subject, then I got your message. What luck!

I figured no one could miss the sarcasm in that, but I vastly underestimated the idiocy of others, because all I got back was a two word message.

That’s great!

I ignored it, thinking the dude was fucking with me. Then today, I got a follow up message.

 So are you still interested in working with me?

So I sent another response.

Sorry. I recently died of cancer.

I can only assume that in the next few days, I’ll receive another email offering his condolences for my untimely death. Because I am indeed, surrounded by idiots.

Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go. Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole needs updating.

Essa Creates a Religion…or Maybe a Cult

I’ve never been a particularly religious person. That’s probably because every major religion I’ve ever looked into (with the exception of Wicca, which I just find strange) tends to treat women more like accessories than people. Those of us without dangly bits are expected to make babies, clean houses and listen to men.

I hate babies. I haven’t cleaned anything since 1996, and judging from my hate mail, most men are far too stupid to be worth listening to. To me, being a religious woman is a lot like being a black Republican. I just don’t get it.

But I feel like I’m missing out. Aside from having an imaginary friend to talk to, free spaghetti suppers, and unlimited bingo nights, I’m also missing out on those sweet, sweet tax incentives.

So I’m creating a new religion. It’s called Agnostic Apathy. Our main creed will be as follows.

“The only people who know what happens after you die are dead people. So we should all worry about what happens after we’re dead when we’re actually dead.”

Of course, a platform of apathy is no platform at all (literally) so here are some guidelines to help you all live a pure and godly Agnostic Apathist lifestyle.

#1 – Every religion needs a book, but I don’t feel like writing one. It’s probably the apathy.  So our bible will default to my favorite book “Valley of the Dolls.” There are many valuable life lessons to be learned in “Valley of the Dolls”, including;

Never mix amphetamines with sedatives. You’ll break even and ruin your buzz.
If you catch your possibly gay husband sleeping with your assistant in your cabana, make sure to disinfect your pool with plenty of rum
Suicide attempts are a great way to earn public sympathy and movie roles
All your friends will eventually turn on you if enough money is involved.

I’m sure that there are a lot more life lessons to be had in “Valley of the Dolls,” but I’m a bit too buzzed to look them up. That’s because I’m following one of “Valley of the Dolls’” best life lessons of all.

There is no problem so big that alcohol can’t fix it.

#2 – Every religion needs a god to pray to. That’s why I’ve decided to cut out the Hollywood middleman and start praying to Morgan Freeman.

Morgan Freeman is a great messiah. He’s friendly, yet stern. He has a delightful speaking voice. And he knows a lot of penguin trivia. As an added benefit, he’s played the role of god like 400 times, so he has experience.

#3 – Door to door recruiting is encouraged. Not a lot of credible ‘non-crazy’ religions go door-to-door trying to recruit new members. Think about it. When was the last time you opened your door to a bunch of Hasidic Jews who wanted to discuss the Torah with you?

That’s because the Hasidic Jews already have a fan following. The newer, wackier religions don’t. But they also don’t have a good marketing policy. It’s my understanding that the Jehovahs and the Mormons both have a standard script and procedure manual for door knocking. So I’ve created my own, and it’s going to be much more effective, using an easy step-by-step method.

Get loaded. It’s so much easier to talk to people when you’re loaded.
Bring beer.
Knock on the door.
Use a powerful greeting that will get your prospect’s attention. I recommend “What’s up, bitches? Can I interest you in some free beer?”
Get prospect extremely intoxicated.
Ask for money

I’m estimating at least a 90% success rate with that method, as opposed to the 0.005% success rate of other door knockers.

Suck it, Mormons.

#4 – We’re going to borrow the stuff I actually like from other religions.

Jews, nice call on the ‘no hell’ thing. Of course, it doesn’t make up for the big thing you got wrong; i.e. killing Jesus. But it’s still a good idea.

Catholics, I love the heavy focus on wine.    Of course, I imagine the ratio of kid diddling to priest goes up significantly once everyone is buzzed, so let’s remember to drink responsibly.

Muslims…um…ahhh? No booze, smoking or bacon? And for all that, I get virgins in the afterlife? Why the hell would I want virgins? They have no idea what they’re doing! Sorry bros, you can keep the Quran. It kind of sounds like a downer.

Wiccans, I dig the clothes. They’re very forgiving, which I need after all that Catholic wine drinking. Sure the earth worship thing makes you all look like nutjobs, but at least you look sexy and bohemian when you do it.

Buddhists, your messiah is a giant brown baby. I love it! Note to all, correction on the Morgan Freeman thing. Our messiah will now be played by a giant brown baby, narrated by Morgan Freeman.

If I missed any other major religions, you should know I just didn’t care enough to look you up on Wikipedia. Sorry.

Ok, I’ve put a lot of work into this new religion. By work, I mean I drank four beers and spent an hour insulting as many people as I could. In my world that’s work. So I’m hopeful people will get on board. If you’re interested in becoming a member, there is only one important thing you have to do.

Bring beer.

 

About the Porn…

***Note to family – The title should have turned you off, but if it didn’t, don’t say I didn’t warn you. This post features more than you will ever want to know about me. Turn back now before it’s too late.***

Ever since I came clean about writing porn under the name of Charlene McSuede, I’ve been getting a lot of emails from readers telling me “I know it’s porn, but I’m thinking about checking out one of your Charlene McSuede books.” Or even worse, “I’m reading one of your porn books because I like your writing style.”

To which I can only say…

I have a feeling a lot of people are picking these things up, expecting a Harlequin romance or even something like 50 Shade of Grey. Let me make this clear, people. The books under my porn name make 50 Shades of Grey look like the fucking Veggie Tales.

BDSM for Veggie Tales

These books are not simply books that feature extensive sex scenes, or even some light bondage. They are hardcore spanking fiction.

Yeah, you read that right. Hardcore spanking fiction. That is what these are. While the books are romance, and might even feature a story with a decent twist, that’s only because I think anything worth writing is worth writing right.

But do not go into them thinking you can just skip the kink. You can’t. The books start out tame because I actually have to build character relationships first, but do not be lulled into a false sense of security. Let me give you a metaphor to explain what is going to happen.

You hear a light knocking at your front door. You can’t tell if it’s a visitor or the wind. The rapping continues, almost eerily calm. Tap. Tap. Tap. The tapping is almost soothing in its gentleness. You approach the peephole, to see if you do indeed have a visitor, or if it is nothing more than a wayward tree branch. Ever so softly, you get up on your tiptoes and put your eye right up to the peephole and…

BAM!!! A FUCKIN BULLET RIPS OFF PART OF YOUR HEAD!

If you like my writing style, then read the books under this pen name and be patient as I work on publishing more. If you want to support me, again, this pen name.

The only time you should be reading my hardcore spanking fiction is if you’re into hardcore spanking fiction.

Also, no need to mention you’re reading it. This in no way benefits me. Think about it. If you hate it, chances are you think I’m a sick perv. If you love it, you’ve pretty much told me that we enjoy masturbating to the same things. That’s way more than I really need to know about my readers.

I’m not ashamed of the porn. That’s why I mention it here. It sells and it’s good…if you enjoy hardcore spanking fiction. If not, then avoid it. But either way, let’s never mention it again, k?

The Devolution of a Neighborhood

I’ve been in denial for awhile, but it’s time to admit it. My neighborhood has become a ghetto.

When I first moved in, it was a simple, quiet gated community on the edge of a wealthier town. Most of the people who lived here were middle-class, white collar workers who spent their days in the offices right up the street. Even when the signs started to appear that this place was going down hill, I ignored them.

When one of my neighbors tried to burn his girlfriend’s apartment down, while completely stark naked I just said “Hey, it’s already hot enough here. If you’re going to light a fire, you need to stay cool.” When a man got into a police standoff a few blocks over, complaining that he was getting messages from the children’s show, “Yo Gabba Gabba” I took it as par for the course in being a Floridian.

When a man drove his car into the 2 foot retention pond and tried to commit suicide, I just assumed he was really bad at suicide.

But I can no longer ignore it, the way I’ve ignored the fact that my neighbors are drug dealers. I can no longer ignore it, because just this morning, I saw ‘ghetto mattress”.

Ghetto mattress never happens in a nice neighborhood. You don’t hear about a lot of residents in Coconut Grove calling the city to have someone’s 16 year old posturpedic removed. No, a mattress on the side of the road happens only where no one really gives a fuck.

Let’s explain the evolution. A ghetto motherfucker wakes up one morning and realizes he needs to get rid of his mattress. Maybe it’s filled with burns because of his crack pipe. Maybe his Rottweiler peed on it. For whatever reason, the mattress is persona-non-grata in his one bedroom apartment.

So here is what he does. He drags the mattress outside and tosses it on top of his 1998 Honda Civic. You know the one. It has a sound system that’s worth more than the car, pitch black window tint and spinning rims.

He makes it about 25 feet with the mattress on top of his car, before he slams on his brakes and the mattress goes flying and lands in what will be its final resting place. This guy then gives himself a hearty pat on the back and walks away, saying ‘well, the mattress is society’s problem now”.

Ghetto mattress will never be moved. It will sit on the side of the road, being used as a trampoline by ghetto motherfucker’s children and as a waste disposal unit for feral cats.  It will sit there for decades, and everyone who drives past it will say ‘who the hell just leaves a mattress on the side of the road?”

Eventually, ghetto mattress will get some friends. He might get some ‘ghetto tires’, or one of those old steel barrels that bums use to light fires in. He might even get a few more mattresses.

Homeless people will discover all these wonderful mattresses for sleeping on, and all these wonderful tires for sitting on. They will make fires in the discarded steel cans until the area where ghetto mattress started looks a lot like this.

Yes, I’m saying it. The journey to having a homeless camp in your back yard begins with one solitary mattress. So it’s looking like it’s time to move again. On the upside, at least I know what to do with all my old mattresses.

 

 

The 2014 Year End Review

 

God, it’s a bitch to write these things sober. That’s one notable thing I’ve noticed about 2014. I spent a significant amount of it heavily intoxicated. The rest of the time was spent deleting Facebook and Twitter posts made while intoxicated.

Does that mean I’m quitting my drinking and illicit drug use entirely? Fuck no. I’m just cutting back until my ass shrinks down a size or two…same with my liver.

Luckily I do remember enough of the high points of 2014 to review them. So let’s get started.

#1 – I started writing porn

Yeah people, the girl who couldn’t write a sex scene two years ago now makes her living predominantly on books that are nothing more than extended sex scenes. I published my first porn book in 2014, saw 100 sales in a day, and decided to totally sell out.

As a result, my books under the pen name Essa Alroc have fallen by the wayside. So this is my solemn vow. I will publish enough porn this year so that I can go back to writing the books that don’t sell. I actually have two in the works. It’s just, when faced with the option of writing a book that sells, over one that I’m actually proud of, I’ll choose the one that sells every time.

I never denied the fact that I am a complete literary whore. If you’re curious, my porn is under the name Charlene McSuede. Now go look it up and be embarrassed for both of us.

#2 – I went viral

But not in that bad way, like the time I gave everyone at work ringworm. Nope, in the good way where my rantings got shared with a shitload of people, multiple times. I didn’t see an increase in book sales, but I did see an increase in hate mail…which is good, because my hate mail page needed to be updated.

#3 – My overall hate mail went down significantly, while my weird mail went up.

Last year, I was mainly getting messages that told me what a dumb cunt I am. This year, I’m getting messages offering this dumb cunt plane tickets to come visit, promising me money or asking for pictures of my feet.

People, this is not one of those web cam model pages. I don’t want your money (mainly because I am entirely convinced it will be covered in human secretions) but also because I’m not a beggar. I’m doing ok. This is not a Go Fund Me page. I fund myself and I’m good. You want to give to charity, adopt one of those black kids Sally Struthers used to bitch about. You want to do me a solid?

Send weed.

#4 – I made an attempt to home school my kid.

Me and Logan tried it out this year, mainly because of how much I change home bases. It seemed unfair to keep making him move, so I offered homeschooling.

Result? After the first few ‘social studies’ lessons, that mainly involved me getting wasted, showing up in his room at 2 am and spending four hours ranting about the government, Logan said to me, “mom, I think I want to go back to regular school.”

Hey, at least we tried.

All in all, 2014 was a good year. It wasn’t great. It was like one of those filler episodes in a soap opera, where nothing really happens, but they need to advance the plot. That leads me to believe all the crazy shit is going to happen in 2015.

I’m writing my porn with a publisher now and I’m making sales, because let’s be honest, you motherfuckers are perverts. With any luck, I’ll finish my first series, start my second and James Franco will want to make a movie out of it, then get into a huge fight with North Korea, thereby making me go more viral than I already am (and I’m not talking ringworm, people).

I didn’t make the New York Times bestsellers list this year, but I could hardly expect to. I spent it writing spank fodder. With the exception of EL James, spank fodder doesn’t really lend itself to a lot of bookclubs.

But 2015 is going to be a big year for me. I already feel it. Maybe I’ll write some bestselling porn. Maybe it will be one of my real books that actually gets more than 4 sales a month. Either way, I’ll spend 2015 writing and not in a cubicle.

Who could ask for anything more?

 

Real Housewives that Write Real Books – Author Interview With A.J. Goode

I pull up to a large house, on a street where all houses are the same shade of beige. As I do, I plow my unnecessarily huge silver Escalade into a novelty mailbox, as I am trying to drive while holding my cell phone in one hand and a martini in the other.  Because I am the most important woman who ever existed, I am incapable of putting down my cell phone for even 11 seconds. Right now, I’m using it to shout at my Cuban nanny.

“Marisol, if Lockton is choking, just give him the Heimlich. I don’t have time for this today. I’m doing an author interview.”

“Miss Alroc, your son’s name is Logan.”

“Logan, Lockton, whatever. Just do it or I’ll have you deported.” I snap my phone shut, and congratulate myself on being a fabulous mother, before I knock on A.J. Goode’s door.

My frenemy A.J. has recently released another book, so I am pretending to be happy and supportive. In reality, I’m filled with envy and am dying to shut this down before she becomes more famous than me…or even worse, gets richer than me.

She opens the door and immediately smiles. “Essa!” We give each other high pitched greetings in overly enthusiastic voices before hugging like we haven’t seen each other in months.

A.J. leads me out back. “I hope you don’t mind. I figured we could do this outside while the pool boy finishes up.”

I turn my attention towards a young, well built Hispanic man holding a pool skimmer. “But A.J. you don’t have a pool.”

She smiles and takes a sip of her martini. “I know.”

I pull out my tape recorder.

***

What made you start writing romance?

I grew up reading my mother’s collection of romance novels, and I wanted to try writing the same kind of books that gave me so much enjoyment over the years.

Who are your books aimed at?

My books are aimed mostly at women who are looking for stories of romance with characters that might actually exist in today’s world.   I try to reach out to readers who are looking for something more relatable than billionaire playboys, lingerie models or vampires.

Tell me about your current project

I am working on the third book in my Beach Haven series, “Their Love Rekindled.”  It’s going to feature a couple of characters who have had a mention or two in my first two books, as well as a few cameo appearances from some more familiar characters.

Even though these books are all part of a series, each one is written to stand on its own so that readers can jump in at any point.

Any real life inspiration behind your characters?

The fire chief, Rollie Griswold, is very loosely based on the father of one of my best friends.  The real Rollie was smart and outspoken, and one of the kindest individuals I have ever known.  He passed away while I was writing this book, and I got his daughter’s permission to honor his memory by naming a character after him.

Other than that, most of the minor characters are based on real people in my life.  Hopefully, my co-workers and friends will all have a sense of humor if they recognize themselves.

Any types of characters you try to avoid in your books?

I really hate the Lonely Billionaire character who falls in love with the spunky poor girl because she’s the only one who isn’t impressed by his money.  Blech!  I can’t say that I’ll never write a book with that type of hero, but I have no desire to write one at this point.

Don’t you wish you wrote something more respectable than romance? I mean, how big is the market for trashy novels anyway?

I’m proud to write in a genre that exists to class things up a bit in comparison to all of the trashy porn being written today.  Then again, you do pretty well with your porn, don’t you?

It’s erotica. < stressing the word erotica in the most pretentious way I can.>

<smirks> Right

What other novelist would you gladly drown in a river if given the chance?

Would you like to go for a swim after this interview?

Just kidding, of course. <her tone indicates she’s really not and I’m very glad she doesn’t have a pool>  I don’t think anyone would miss E.L. James or Kathleen Hale.

Was the decision to let yourself go related to the fact that you work from home? Or was it just general laziness?  

I didn’t want to live up to the cliché of the sexually-deprived  romance writer who lives vicariously through her characters.  You know, the type of woman who goes the whole Botox-collagen-bleached blonde route to try to LOOK sexy because there’s nothing actually going on in that department at home.

Which reminds me, I meant to tell you how much I like the look you’re going with now.  Most women our age couldn’t carry off the dark roots, but it really helps keep anyone from noticing that you can’t blink.

<I struggle to blink just to prove I can and bite my collagen filled lower lip> Well then, I think we have enough for the interview.

***

Our interview is currently deteriorating to snark, so I know it’s time to quit before someone flips a table and starts screaming “prostitution whore!” I give one last licentious look to the pool boy as A.J. goes back to her writing.

If you want to check out A.J.’s new release, it’s called “His Heart Aflame” and it’s available now on Amazon. To check out her other works, see A.J. Goode’s author page.

 

 

 

I’m Not Ready to Make Nice

I like to consider myself a tolerant person, even though I know, deep down inside, I’m not. I’m a generation Xer, a former military member and a girl who grew up with the threat of Islam leaning over her head. So excuse me very much if I look at you sideways when I see a person in America wearing a head scarf or a woman covering her face. I’m very sorry that my shock offends you, but let’s admit if I showed up in your middle Eastern country with my hair unbound and my face on full display, I’d get a few shocked looks too.

The difference between you and me? No one is tossing you into prison when you come to America with your head scarf on. I doubt I would be given the same courtesy if I was to go to your homeland.

You’re welcome, BTW.

I’m frustrated by something I shouldn’t be frustrated by. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s not tolerant and my liberal guilt just has me stewing in my own angry juices but I’m going to say it anyway. It’s not my job to make sure the country you chose to live in assimilates to you. It’s your job to assimilate to your country.

I’m on this tangent tonight because of the Australian hostage crisis and the whole #illridewithyou liberal guilt parade that followed.  Never mind the two people that died because of religious extremism, or the 10 more that were horrified because of the hostage situation in the first place. Apparently us westerners need to still make sure that people of different religious backgrounds feel comfortable around us.

We say “I’ll ride with you” to our Islam counterparts, so they won’t get harassed. Because god forbid someone who just goes about their regular business gets harassed. Like when they go to a coffee shop or something and then get held hostage for two days. Unless they’re white. Apparently then, it’s ‘fuck you white people. Game on.”

Yup, it pissed me off that this person, an Islam terrorist, was able to take a shitload of people hostage and the first response of everyone else? “Well, it doesn’t mean all Muslims are bad. We should have a Twitter campaign to support them.”

Are you assholes fucking serious?

We ignore the real victims and we avoid getting angry because of our liberal white person guilt. If we were truly being ourselves, instead of “#illridewithyou” we’d have “#illkickthenextmuslimextremistiseeinthenutsnoregrets.”

No motherfucking regrets.

That is a campaign I’m ready to see. All this over zealous, liberal guilt, religious reverse discrimination is just about enough. Right now, the bad guys are Muslim. In fact, for the past decade, the bad guys have been Muslim. Just so you know Muslims, I’m suspicious of you and I feel no need to defend you. Deal with it.

“Oh, I had nothing to do with it. I’m a peaceful Muslim.”

Well I’m a peaceful white chick, but I still get blamed for slavery. Despite the fact that my family never owned slaves and that I believe black people deserve the same rights as white, I’m a villain. That all occurs because of an accident of my birth.  I didn’t have a choice.

So welcome to the club, motherfuckers. In this country, you get blamed for every single mistake every single one of your predecessors made. It’s up to you to fix it.

You know what I don’t see enough of? These peaceful Muslims stating their extremist counterparts are wrong. I don’t see them getting on the news like Al Sharpton, defending their race. Instead, I see the allegedly peaceful ones expecting others to do it for them.

So no, I’m not ready to make nice. I’m not ready to defend your right to wear headscarves or not touch pork or whatever, because you are not taking the opportunity to defend yourselves.

So yup, when I see a headscarf, a burqa or anything in between, I immediately think “terrorist”. I think so because history has told me to think “terrorist.” You not bothering to defend yourselves gives me no confidence in your position. I think if you had that much faith in your religion, you’d be a bit more outspoken about it.

It’s not up to me to change my view. It’s up to you to change my perception. So get vigilant about it. Take a strong stance against Al-Qaeda, against Isis, against any religious extremist group. Because people are suffering and they are dying because of the religion YOU chose to be a part of.  It’s not your fault but it’s part of your community and it’s your responsibility to fix it. Welcome to the club.

Meanwhile, don’t expect me to defend you religion. Defend it yourself. Otherwise, I propose a new hashtag. Its called’ #getyourowndamnride

Either defend the religion you apparently think so highly of, or let it go. But stop expecting others to defend it for you. Because I, for one, am not ready to make nice. I’m still a bit pissed about the whole 9-11 thing.

And maybe, just maybe, its about time we all got fucking good and mad about it, rather than talking about how much we “tolerate it.” Because I’m a bit sick of tolerating fairy tales being used to drive my life or as an excuse to kill my family and my ‘tolerance’ only goes so far.

Christian…Just in Case

I get more than a few emails accusing me of hating Christians. I can’t say people don’t have their reasons. In fact, on more than one occasion, I’ve referred to Christianity as “praying to the invisible sky daddy” which is probably offensive in and of itself.

But here’s the deal. I don’t hate Christians.  I was raised Catholic and most of my friends self-identify as Christian. There’s nothing wrong with that. In a way, everyone needs there own special thing to feel fulfilled. For Christian people, it might be some way to communicate and find higher meaning in everything that happens every day. It’s their way of making sense of the world. I can respect the need to do that.

Me, I write. That’s my thing. Whenever something bothers me, or doesn’t makes sense to me, I write about it and it makes me feel better. In a way, writing is my religion. I use it to forgive myself for the things I do, justify the things I might do and explain the consequences. To date, I’ve never met a problem that writing couldn’t fix.

I imagine a lot of Christian feel the same way about their religion.

What I have a problem with isn’t Christianity. It’s with organized religion being used for something other than that. To me, religion, in its core, is corrupt. It’s man made. As men are, in their core, corrupt, anything we make has that small kernel of corruption living in it. It only takes one bad person to make that corruption grow. When people blindly follow a person who claims to be ‘godly’ they open themselves to that corruption. They open themselves to the corruption of those who might have ulterior motives.

Jim Jones…the dude who killed a shitload of people who didn’t think for themselves.

I think your relationship with the universe needs to be a personal one. I don’t think it’s something someone else can guide you in. I think we all have the power in ourselves to determine the difference between right and wrong, without seeking the assistance of a middle man.

I have nerves in my body. When I touch a stove, those nerves cause pain and that pain warns me that I’m doing damage to my body. It warns me to stop doing that damage before that damage becomes permanent. So I stop doing what I’m doing.

 

I think feelings work the same way. If we left things the way they were, if we ignored 1000 year old books and just listened to our feelings, we’d all be better people. When we feel guilt, anger, hatred, sadness, any of those horrible feelings, those are signs that we’re damaging more than our bodies. We’re damaging our souls. If we don’t change the way we act, that damage will become permanent. You shouldn’t need the teachings of Jesus, Yahweh, Mohamed or Buda to tell you that. You already have your instincts telling you what you need to know.

It’s not about religion. It’s about faith. I believe my body was designed by a higher power, which gives me all the tools to know when I’m doing wrong.  Faith isn’t man made. It’s instinctual and it can’t be corrupted. So while I have a lot of faith in faith, I have very little in religion.

I get this message a lot, by the same people that accuse me of hating Christians. “What if you’re wrong? At least if I’m wrong, I have nothing to lose.”

That’s an invalid argument. You can’t be “Christian…just in case” because there is a very good chance you could be wrong. There are more than 4000 known religions. Unless you subscribe to every last one, there is no ‘just in case’. In fact, it’s entirely likely that you’re wrong. It’s entirely likely that you’re doing things wrong, because you’re putting your faith in the hands of men, when you could have faith all your own.

You’ve been given all the tools to know the difference between right and wrong.   It’s just that society, and religion, likes to jump in and gum up the works. Your body isn’t telling you you’re gay because you are being tested. Your body is telling you you’re gay because it knows it’s right to love someone of the same gender. It was what you were made for. The only test you fail is if you fail to acknowledge what you truly are and deny yourself to please other people. That’s when you get the guilt. The sign that you’re denying yourself is the sign that you’re damaging your soul. You were made for something. Accept it.

The purpose of your religion, regardless of what it is, should be this. It should be to make you a better person. It shouldn’t be for you to convert everyone you know into your club. It shouldn’t be to ‘spread your message’. True faith happens on the inside. It happens when you accept yourself.

I don’t subscribe to religion because I find it arrogant. Whatever put us all here, whatever reason it had, we need to accept it is a far more intelligent being that we could ever be. For us to pretend we know what it wants, and even counsel others on its state of mind, is both futile and arrogant.

So no, I don’t hate Christians. I just don’t agree with you all. It has nothing to do with me being faithless. In fact, I think I have a little more faith than most. I have faith in the body and the brain I was given to be able to tell me right from wrong. I believe I was made the way I was for a reason. It wasn’t a trick and it wasn’t to test me. It was for me to find the best possible way for me to be me. I’m doing that.

If you need Christianity to do that, more power to you. I think everyone needs an outlet and I’m not even saying Christianity is wrong. Everyone needs a way the channel that universal energy we were all given.

But you can’t be Christian…just in case. Life is a bit more complicated than that.

No, I’m Not a Man

“Women can’t be funny.”

This is a statement I hear a lot. I’m not sure where it came from, but the earliest instance I know of occurs in a 1695 article written by William Congreve, which states;

“I must confess I have never made an observation of what I apprehend to be true humor in women. Perhaps passions are too powerful in that sex to let humor have its course; or maybe by reason of their natural coldness, humor cannot exert itself to that extravagant degree, which is does in the male sex.”

Now look, based on my review of William Congreve’s body of work, I could make my own assertion and create an article called “People Named William Can’t be Funny” …but I’m not the kind of girl to generalize.

I bring this up tonight because I got yet another email from yet another disgruntled commentator, who is firm in his assertion that Essa Alroc is, in fact, a man. Following his email, I immediately raced to my bathroom, yanked down my pants, and was relieved to find that my vagina was just where I left it.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Just because I’m funny doesn’t mean I have a dick. I assure you all, I really am the smoking hot blonde, with the tiny white dog, in the picture slightly to the right. I don’t avoid posting pictures of myself on this page because I’m trying to hide my Adam’s Apple. I avoid posting them because in every picture, I look exactly like this;

 

What can I say? I’m not photogenic and something about someone pulling out a camera makes me want to sneeze and fart simultaneously.

I’ve been told my tone is masculine, my subjects are masculine and even, from one flaky ‘chakra counselor’ (how the fuck is that a job title?) that my aura is masculine. I don’t think that’s the case. I think it’s simply the fact that people aren’t yet used to my awesome style.

Look, I’m not one to jump on the feminist bandwagon, but the fact is until very recently, the female gender has been repressed. Our main goal in life wasn’t to impress society. It was to impress a man. Rule of thumb when impressing a man?

YOU don’t try to be funny. You make HIM feel like HE’S funny.

Women having goals outside of marriage and children is a relatively recent occurrence. It wasn’t until the sexual liberation of the 60s that we were even allowed to fuck who we wanted without being ostracized. Even then, our freedom became all about our sexuality. When it came to freedom of opinions, we were nothing more than a bunch of angry dykes who couldn’t get men.

I got lucky. I was born at the tail end of that repression. From early childhood, it was ingrained in me that it’s far more important to be an interesting person than it is to be wife material. I thank having very liberal parents for that. Being wife material is kind of my idea of hell.

To me, wife material = boring as fuck

Yes, I’m a mother. But this isn’t a ‘mom blog’ because I’m defined by more than the ability to shove something the same size and weight as a bowling ball out of my vagina…though I will admit it’s a impressive feat. I don’t make this blog about dating because I don’t date. I haven’t in years. As a single woman with horrible taste in men, I would consider it the absolute height of irresponsibility to bring some man I’ve only known for a few weeks around my child and introduce him as his new daddy.  Not to mention, I’m pretty sure my kid would shank him.

He has a bit of an Oedipus complex that I’m sincerely hoping he’ll grow out of.

So no, I don’t stick to ‘female friendly’ topics. This blog isn’t about me dating or me being a mom or about me empowering women. The phrase ‘women’s empowerment’ genuinely makes me throw up a little. This site is here so I can vent about the shit everyone else does to piss me off.  The object of my site isn’t to impress anyone. It’s to piss you off, and maybe make you laugh a little.

I’m not a man. I’m not even androgynous. I’m very clearly a woman. I have the tits to prove it and they are fucking fantastic. But this blog isn’t about my fantastic tits (though they are so fantastic, they deserve their own blog). This blog is about my opinions on everything, hence the name “Essa on Everything.”

I’m not a man writing as a woman, or even a woman writing as a woman. I’m a person who writes the things most people are thinking in their heads anyway. If you’re a regular reader, go ahead and count the times that you’ve nodded in agreement over something I’ve said on here. That didn’t happen because I’m a chick. It happened because I’m a smart person who has no fear of hatemail.

The fact is I say what PEOPLE are thinking. I’m able to let the facts of a certain situation swirl around in my head for a bit, before I give a concise, intelligent, and oftentimes hilarious opinion.

I don’t need a pair of testicles to do it. So no people, I’m not a man. I’m just a girl who is a lot smarter than you. It happens and it happens a lot more than you might think.

Deal with it.

Tis the Season to do the Same Thing as Last Year – Essa’s Christmas Predictions

The splatter of shopper blood in parking lots everywhere makes it official; the Christmas season has begun.

Every year, I promise myself I’m going to do it differently. I’m not going to procrastinate. I’m going to get everything done early and have a good old fashioned, balmy 80 degree Christmas.

This year, I give up. I’m not changing any bad habits. I am going to sit on my ass and let history repeat itself. So here are my predictions for the 2014 Christmas season.

I will consistently bitch about the radio stations that switch to playing nothing but Christmas songs this time of year.

One or two Christmas songs is all right, but I don’t need 40 different renditions of Jingle Bells. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to rock out to Jingle Bells? But that isn’t the main reason I hate this practice.

The main reason I hate it is between all the shitty Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeers and Frosty the Snowmans, these stations never play the ONE Christmas song worth listening to.

That would be “Father Christmas” by the Kinks. I now invite you to listen to it 10 times in a row, like I always do this time of year.

I will take on way too many clients and wind up working until Midnight on Christmas Eve.

This time of year, old clients start popping out of the woodwork for one simple reason; they want Christmas off. Due to my utter lack of time management and inability to turn down a job, I can pretty much guarantee while you’re all drinking eggnog and watching “It’s a Wonderful Life”, I’ll be staring at my computer screen and swearing, while I gently remind a client based in India that December 24 is a major holiday in the US.

Due to lack of aforementioned time management skills, I will do all of my Christmas shopping at 6 pm on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve, I will take a short break from my 18 hour workday in order to race to Target and buy anything that is still available. Paper towels? Mom would love those. Lunch meat? Didn’t my brother say he was on the Atkins diet? Then, I will phone it in by buying a bunch of gift cards. Everyone loves gift cards.

Thank god for gift cards.

I will use Christmas Day as an excuse to begin drinking at 9 am.

Most people suffer from ‘after Christmas letdown.’ I suffer from “After Christmas – World’s Worst Hangover – Please Kill Me” letdown. December 26 always involves me lying on the couch, binge watching a comfort show (current fav Law and Order: Criminal Intent) as I try not to vomit and lie about ‘never drinking again’.

I will cry at the end of Scrooged

Scrooged is probably the best Christmas movie ever made and I watch it every year. And every year, I cry like a pussy when the little black kid says “god bless us, every one.” This year, I will not even attempt to fight the tears as I watch Bill Murray turn into a better person. I’ll just suck it up and admit Scrooged is a fucking sweet movie.

I will get drunk and post the “Year End Review” blog.

Every year, I feel like a sentimental idiot for posting it, but every year I do it anyway. This is the blog where I go over all the embarrassing shit I’ve done, tell off a few notable hate mailers, and talk about how the next year is going to be the best year ever.

While that last sentence always makes me feel like a sap, it is always true. Now that I found my calling, I can pretty much guarantee that every year of my life will be better than the one before it.

At least until I die of that inevitable drug overdose.

This year, I will not change a thing about the way I react to the Christmas season. I won’t be nicer to people and I won’t make any effort to be a better person. But you do have to give me points for at least being consistent.