Wednesday, June 30, 2010

The Sum of all my Fears

My therapist has decided to counter my anxiety disorders by helping me compile a list of my fears and working through them one-by-one. My first fear was that I would be unable to finish my list before the hour was up and that she would send me into the world obsessing about all my fears.

DR L: “OK, first fear.”

ESSIE: “Continuous hiccupping.”

DR L (pauses over notepad. Dreading to ask what I mean)

ESSIE: “I saw it on Ripley’s Believe it or not. This guy started hiccupping and couldn’t stop for seven years. His wife left him. It’s serious.”

DR L: “Remember the time your mother had that pain in her wrist and she thought she had Lou Gehrig’s disease but it turns out her watch was too tight? You are just mirroring her hypochondria.”

ESSIE: “Great. Now I’m scared of becoming like my mother.”

DR L (fake therapist smile. Mentally picturing what she’s going to cook for dinner.)

ESSIE (rattles off list of fears like Tsunamis, midgets, chameleons, the recession, dying alone, train crashes, plane crashes, car crashes and choking)

DR L (talking very slowly): “ about...that?”

ESSIE: “About my fears?”

DR L: “Yes...”

ESSIE (talking very slowly): “I...FEEL...afraid...”

At this point, elevator music starts to play and she gets that relieved look on her face.

DR L: “That’s all we have time for!”

ESSIE: “Don’t pack up your fucking pen. I need more therapy.”

DR L: “You are fine. You are a strong, secure, talented, beautiful woman. Remember to say that. Can you say that?”

ESSIE (pause): “Why do you even have to pack up your pen? You aren’t going anywhere.”

DR L: “This is not progress. Can you say, “I am a strong, secure, talented, beautiful woman?”

ESSIE (sulky): “No...”

She eventually coaxed me out of the office with some Prozac as I shouted, “FINE! I AM A STRONG SECURE TALENTED BEAUTIFUL WOMAN!”

I love that bitch. She really GETS me.

The Story of what's on my desk

Hello adoring fans!

I am part of the Bloggerstock group, which is like a pyramid scheme. With blogs. Except this time I won’t have to sell all DW’s action figures my unwanted knickknacks on e-bay to bounce back after joining.

Amogh is a really cool Indian guy I met online and immediately gave all my personal details to. (So if I disappear mysteriously and there is blood all over my apartment, this is one of the prime suspects you should be looking into. You’re welcome, FBI.) He’s currently doing his MBA and watching a lot of soccer. Please leave him some awesome comments because I warned him that if the guest post sucks he will be devoured by flying monkeys. No shit, y’all. I’ll do it.

But if the longing for some sweet, sweet essie gets too much you can visit me on Rob’s blog which is


If you people are thinking why this dumbo’s post posted here is on this amazing hilarious blog then you should probably join the bloggerstock! Hahaha Let me thank Estelle for letting me post here. I'm Amogh, human (if you were just wondering), from the land of samosas, unexplainable culture, kamasutra and many other awesome things which are yet to be discovered. I blog at Cloned warrior which is no theme as I write whatever I like and sometimes I even manage to write something good.
So if you are wondering what bloggerstock is? Well, it’s a brainchild of some of the members on 20SB to pair the bloggers around into a chain were each writes posts for other’s blog. It could be said that it’s a cool way to get yourself known, show what you can contribute on a given topic or maybe for getting some new followers. You can read more about it here and join our cool group here.

This month’s (June) topic is: “The story of what is on your ‘desk’.”
Do you really want to know about it! Ok, so let me indulge you. I really don’t have a desk. Well, I used to have one. But I gave it away as I never used it and it was occupying unwanted space in my already tiny room. It used to look like this!

When I used to have this desk it was the messiest place in my home.
Mother: “when are you going to clean your desk?”
Me: I’ll right now I'm busy!
Mother: why are your belt and jeans lying all over your desk?
Me: I don’t have enough space in my wardrobe!
Mother: you have to clear your wardrobe too!
Me: ok, ok I’ll do it!
Mother: when?
Me: whenever I get time.

Well, in the end my mother just gives up and tidy them herself.
Now, I occupy the couch with my laptop and wile my time away Facebooking, youtubing, chatting and doing all those other trivial things I do on World Wide Web. Most of my study material comes in the form of .pdf/.doc hence all my study time is spent on it to such an extent that my laptop has almost become a part of my body and my lap is my new desk.
But this little brain here has dreams too and I want a desk just like this when I grow up!

If I haven’t already!
PS: hope the flying monkeys don’t kill me!

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Abstainance 101

My friend Jennifer works with teenagers and she sent me this little blurb they use to inspire the teens. (I used to work with teens too, before they gave me a nervous breakdown. Really, you can't inspire teens. They are like Jell-O. Jell-O that hates everything.) She wants to know how if I think this little blurb will inspire girls not to sleep around. Here's the blurb:

Girls are like
apples on trees. The best
ones are at the top of the tree.
The boys don't want to reach for
the good ones because they are afraid
of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they
just get the rotten apples from the ground
that aren't as good, but easy. So the apples
at the top think something is wrong with
them, when in reality, they're amazing.
They just have to wait for the right
boy to come along, the one
who's brave enough
to climb
all the way
to the top
of the tree.

My comments:

Or you have to wait until you are so sick of being high and mighty and horny that you decide to shake loose a little and become rotten.

That’s what happened to me.

But why are the boys boys and the girls apples getting eaten? And why are the boys eating rotten apples? WTF is wrong with boys? Is this an oral sex parable? I’m confused.

And she got really cross with me and was like, "this is serious" and "how else are you going to prevent teens from sleeping around" and I told her the only thing preventing me from sleeping around as a teenager was the fact that my dad was a war veteran from Angola and threatened to shoot my boyfriends in the knee. And then I suggested that she calls my dad to come threaten the boys in the class because he is retired now and my mom is always saying how nice it would be for him to find "a little job to get him out of the house". And maybe we can expand the business so he can shoot them in the knees for talking about Twilight too much.

She hasn't taken me up on the offer. Yet.

Friends & Money

So this cool Blogsite I belong to said we should all write something amazing about Friends and Money. It’s a good topic and I wanted to know how good I am with money because I never seem to have any and I took the money quiz and scored 59. Which is apparently OK and proves that leprechauns have been squirreling away my funds while I sleep because there’s no way I’m bad with money. The test SAID SO.

Money has never been an issue for me. Not because my family is wealthy, but because I’ve never had any and neither has anyone I know. Technically I did everything right because I went to a good college and got an honors degree in business but I still earn about the same amount of money as an Egyptian pyramid slave. That’s what you get for being born in a Third World country. (You also get cholera. A lot.)

But I never had the “things” my friends had.
We got our first TV set when I was seven years old. Before that, my dad used to take us to the mall and make us sit on the benches in front of the Audiovisual store so we could watch cartoons on the TVs in the display window. (Some good, sound parenting there, Dad.)

Toys were hard to ignore because like all children I was a materialistic little asshole. I remember arguing with my mother on Christmas Day, with my letter to Santa in my hand, “I SPECIFICALLY SAID I wanted TWO My Little Ponies for Christmas. A MOM and a BABY. This is just ONE My Little Pony!”

I didn’t have a Mermaid Barbie either, which was the fashion item of the day. I wanted that thing so badly I would probably buy one if I saw it in a toystore today. Instead my dad brought home two ducklings in a paper bag whom we called Gena and Henry. I also remember that my dad used to let us build “fords” in the backyard out of sharp sticks and industrial rubbish and then we would occasionally set fire to it. (More sound parenting. He ran kinda’ a crappy operation when my mom wasn’t around.)

When I was a teen I started whining for Levi jeans and things I saw girls on TV having but my parents couldn’t afford. So I started working when I was 14 years old. I cleaned up tables and dishes for 1 dollar an hour. I also watered lawns, walked dogs and cleaned sour milk out of frozen yoghurt machines. And my whole attitude regarding money changed.

When I suddenly had money in my pocket I didn’t – to my surprise – end up changing my jeans, but rather changing my friends (to a group of people who didn’t care what kind of jeans I wore).

Today I live in a “converted” stable on a scraggly little wine farm. It has 3 rooms and about a thousand good, secondhand paperbacks stacked along the walls. My car is turning 15 this year and the only thing keeping the bumper attached to it are cable ties. My friends and I still split one pizza five ways and I can identify the “good” cheap red wine in any store. I got my first washing machine (secondhand) at age 26 and it revolutionized my whole life. I’ve never owned a vacuum cleaner or dishwasher or a pair of jeans that cost more than 10 dollars. I’ve never had a credit card and I don’t owe anyone a single penny. My wedding dress cost 30 dollars and I had a barbeque for the reception. It didn’t kill me and it didn’t make me less of a person. I’ve never lain in bed dreaming of the possessions I don’t have.

I will never be rich. I will never have more money than I need. But I had my father (crappy parenting aside) spend time with me and I’ve learnt to keep myself entertained without just passively drinking in TV images and video games. I’ve learned to not worry about what I look like.I’ve also managed to attract a whole bunch of people who feel the same and really awesome and who would totally buy me a Mermaid Barbie if they saw one.

That's gotta be worth something, right?

How tampons will get you arrested

My friend Matt just did a test so he could start working in the security department in the airport which is awesome because he needs to get some cash together to import me to the United States and I earn about as much as a junior rower on a Viking slaveship in South Africa. So next time a bomb goes off or someone releases cages of pheromone-crazy snakes on a plane and everyone goes, “How did they get past security?” you’ll know that it’s all his fault and you can point to pictures of Matt and say, “That’s how.” I don’t normally like to mock the people I love but if he let a bunch of pheromone-crazy snakes get on a plane he deserves it.

Anyway I’m going to the UK in September for a job fair with my colleague Kat. Kat was supposed to go on the trip alone and then she was freaking out and not wanting to go because she had a dream about engine failure and became convinced that she was going to die in a horrible plane crash on the way to England and as she was telling us this, she got an email and she got all excited and was like, “Hey, Ess, guess what? YOU ARE COMING WITH ME TO THE UK!!” and now I’m going to die. But then DW pointed out that it’s better to die on the plane than to escape Death and have him string you up in the shower like those Final Destination movies. (This is also the story of how I got back on anti-anxiety meds.)

And I’m nervous that they are going to lock me up for being a terrorist. Not that I am. But that’s exactly the kind of thing I would get arrested for.

 So I asked Matt for some travel tips and he was like, “Don’t pack tampons.”

Apparently tampons look like C4 under the X-ray machine. And now I’m terrified that the security guards are going to think I’m packing explosives and are going to make me open my suitcase and they’ll find my travel size S&M whip, my porn-star bra, my self-help books and all the illegal meat and dried goods my aunt is going to send my cousin in Ireland just in case I manage to “swing by there” during my stay in London. And my C4.
I hate travelling.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Once again computers make me feel bad about myself

StumbledUpon gave me a serious complex.

First off, I was asked to sign in with a “user name”. Every single alias I’ve ever used, including LochBlommie1983% had already been taken, so now my paranoia/fear of identity theft flared up again and I had to call my shrink and she was mean to me because I’m not supposed to live vicariously through the Internet anymore and then I was whining, “But all my FRIENDS are there” and she was all like, “They’re not real” and then I was like, “but they leave me comments” and she said “that doesn’t count for anything” and I was like, “You like when people leave YOU comments” and she said “Well I don’t HATE comments” and I said, “Are you going to bill me for this” and she went quiet the way she does when she’s stealing my money from me but knows I won’t confront her on it so I hung up.

Anyway, I logged on and then I ticked all the boxes stating what I prefer to read about (Humor, Politics, Hello Kitty sex toys, Irony, Cartoons, When children kill, Japanese subculture, Paranormal activity, etc) and then I got this thinger:

Which made me feel totally shit about myself. And I don’t see how typing “Feeblitze” into a box proves that I am human. If we got invaded by – say, the Vee’s (oh, its coming!) – and they were all parading around with human DNA around their reptilian underskins and wanting to have sex with you so you’d lay their creepy eggs you wouldn’t say, “Oh, wait, just type these mildly scrambled words into a box so I can know that you are human” would you? Mmmm? And feeblitze isn’t even a HUMAN word.

Maybe the StumbleUpon webmasters are ALL aliens. We don’t know.

Even more disturbing is that I ticked all my preferences and they analysed all the results to see what I'd be into and all that came up was this fact sheet about North Korea.

Which turned out to be AWESOME.

Did you know Kim Jong-il injects himself with the blood of virgins to stay young? If was a Kim Jong-il virgin I'd totally slag around and get hepatitis and stuff. So he'd get wrinkles. And hepatitis.

I'm awesome.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Proof that tortoises are evil...

OMG I tried to get a picture of the tortoise that tried to eat me and I got this error message:

It is...FORBIDDEN!!! Wtf!!!

I got violated by a tortoise

I don't do well in petting zoos generally. Two years ago, DW took me to Monkey Town and after the guide spent forty minutes telling us not to stick our faces or fingers in the monkey's cages because they will rip them off and eat your eyes and give you the ebola virus, he took one out of the cage and it got away and jumped in my hair and wouldn't let go and stayed there eating almonds, swinging by my ponytail while Japanese people took photos. Eventually the handler took the demon monkey away but I was scarred for life.

Then yesterday I got attacked by a tortoise...which sounds silly because its not very fast and you can literally just take a step back to get away from it and be safe, but this thing would not LET UP! It kept running towards me with it's little beak open and its neck all wrinkly and extended as far as it could go so it could bite know...sooner. It was pretty terrifying because I watched this thing running towards me for like ten was like slow motion.

And you are all picturing a normal tortoise like this:

...but this was an EVIL tortoise...more like:

and then the woman whose tortoise it was, was like, Oh, don't worry, he thinks your toes are pieces of apple and then everyone looked at my toes and I got all embaressed about them.

I will never wear open-toed shoes ever again.

The Craft

I was complaining to my mom about how I'm always broke (it's called a HINT, Mom) and she said I should try to make extra money selling crafts because she makes extra cash making and selling beadwork. I pointed out that I don't have any beads and she said be creative, use stuff around the house.

So here's my very first necklace in the range. I made entirely myself out of common household goods. If you want to order it, just drop me a mail.

Friday, June 25, 2010

TMI, Facebook. TMI.

Some days I just look at DW's facebook and say, "What the fuck, DW? Wtf?" Today was one of those days.

Why I don't have any friends left

ESSIE: "How can you not like Barack Obama?"

DEE: "He's not doing enough for unemployment and he's taking prayer out of schools. And he's kind of a douche."

ESSIE: "Don't say that about Barack. He's my baby-daddy."

DEE: "Whoever gave you Internet access should be punished."

ESSIE: "Not liking Barack Obama is like not liking Raptor Jesus. It's unthinkable."

DEE: "Can we please change the subject? Also, you only made up Raptor Jesus 10 minutes ago."

ESSIE: "Fine."

DEE (long silence): "So it's been a year since Michael Jackson died..."


DEE: "Fuck's sake..."

Raptor Jesus

After 5 minutes many years of searching, I found a religion that I can get behind.

The Book of Essie

I’ve decided to leave my brief quest for religion and become a prophet. These are my words of wisdom:

A great white rapper shall emerge from the east and all the other rappers shall acknowledge that he is both the “shiznis” and the “biznis”.

Thou shalt not say “errbody” unless everybody in the club is gettin’ tipsy.

I have left a message for my followers in the latest Justin Bieber CD that you can hear if you play it backwards.

Hah! That was a trick. My followers do not listen to Justin Bieber.

If you are going to be any kind of asshole, you might as well be a “gigantic” one.

We are human. We are not dancer. Get your nouns straight.

It is forbidden to fantasize about the limpy guy from Dr House. He is mine.

Thou shalt fork over a tithe (10% of thy income) to thy prophet every month. In return, I shall grant thee eternal life. And not make you drink poisoned Kool-Aid.

Religion: wasting millions of weekends since 5000 bc...

I’ve never liked going to church. What if you pick the wrong God and you go and every week you go there just keep making him madder and madder? But then I got terrified that DW might use the Dark Arts against me and that I would get killed by a haunted scrotum, so I decided to enlist the help of a higher power. These are the religions I'm considering. You can vote on them. Like e-bay for the pantheon.


PROS: Apparently when you die you get a really cool house in the sky and there’s a chocolate fountain. We assume.

CONS: has historically killed more people than cancer


PROS: plural marriage

CONS: only applies to men. You can’t have a lot of husbands. Not that I would want that. But apparently I can’t have a lot of wives either. What is the religion called where I can have a lot of wives and not cook or clean or anything? I want that one. Oh wait...maleness. Not so much a religion as a gender.


PROS: Presents for eight days in a row over Hannukkah.

CONS: 6 of the presents will be a dreidel, guilt, persecution


PROS: meditation, peace, the Dalai Llama is really cool, don’t have to attend services, can make up your dogma as you go along

CONS: I can’t fold my legs in the lotus position very long. That’s also why I’m lousy in bed.


PROS: don’t have to worry about what to wear

CONS: no one wants to let you get on a plane to anywhere


PROS: I already have black clothes

CONS: Allegiance to the Dark Lord, demon possession, I can’t stay awake until midnight on a weekday

Dear Mr Seloga, you are a douche-nozzle.

I read this thing about a lion burger that’s being served in America. The owner is quoted as saying:

"In Africa they do eat lions, so I assume if it's OK for Africans to eat lions then it should be OK for us."...We thought that since the World Cup was in Africa that the lion burger might be interesting for some of our more adventurous customers."

Dear Mr Seloga,

In Africa we do not eat lions. Lions eat rotten meat. And Zimbabwean migrants that cross the border illegally. With all the cholera and shitty drinking water we have over here, I think we’ve had enough diarrhoea going around already thank you very much. I’ve personally eaten crocodile, warthog, giraffe, zebra, porcupine and ostrich BUT not lion. That’s just weird. What do you put the fries? Anthrax? We have that over here, too!

As for saying that you want to serve lion burger because the World Cup is hosted in Africa...that’s just stupid. Where you serving panda burgers during the Olympics? You know what else we have in Africa? COWS. Try making a patty outta’ that. It’s worked for centuries.

PS. You are a douche-nozzle.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

I'm a baby-making factory

My mother and I were debating DW and she said she thinks we would have had pretty babies. I argued with her so we ended up on to see what our future kids would look like.

RESULT ONE: Me & DW having a baby

This baby looks like a little tyrant I used to babysit. So I tried to have an Asian baby with DW. I'm not sure how that happens but the site gave us the option and besides I figured if Im going to reproduce I should at least try to give my child some DNA that can do Math.

RESULT TWO: Having an Asian Baby with DW

It came out kinda looking like a squid. And Kim Jong-il. In fact this baby is what would happen if Kim Jong-il and that giant squid off the coast of California had a celebrity baby.

Then I decided to have an illegitimate love child with my friend Mattie, who has not been persuaded to marry me yet.

RESULT THREE: Having a love child with Mattie to trap him into marrying me. (We ended up having the Gerber baby. Yes Mattie. I slept with Gerber. It's your own fault for neglecting me and living in a shitty place like Texas. I have needs.)

After all the freakishness I decided: Fuck It. And had a baby with Marilyn Manson instead. Surprisingly enough he turned out FINE which just disproves everything we know about parenting. Suck it, Dr Phil.

RESULT FOUR: Having a baby with Marilyn Manson

Belle du Essie Part II

As mentioned previously, I'm going to attempt to become famous by blogging about my sex life, like Belle du Jour.






Tom Cruise movie on TV. Saw a piece of his butt.




New issue of Cosmopolitan magazine hits the shelves.

I'll never be able to fill a book with this shit.

Skype fights

I was on skype trying to explain my Obama-theories to my friend Dee. She didn't get it.

DEE: "You do seem to know a lot about politics. Why aren't you married to Matthew yet?"

ESSIE: "KK. Skyping you something."

DEE: "Wtf is this?"

ESSIE: "It's an illustration I made to explain the situation and also to show off my MS Paint skills."

DEE: "Your handwriting is fucking ugly for someone with mad paint skills."

ESSIE: "That's what it normally looks like."

DEE: "Matt looks like Fred Flintstone."

ESSIE: "Not in real life. But now I'm kinda into Flintstone Matt."
DEE: "It really has been a while."

ESSIE: "But anyway, here's the truth of the situation"

DEE: "Texas isn't 10 000 miles away. And you've never worn a bow in your life."

ESSIE: "I am making this face...
DEE: "LOL...that makes you look like Wilma Flintstone..."

DEE: "Why don't I get a proper face?"

ESSIE: "You don't deserve it."

DEE: "Draw me as Pebbles. Draw me with a face."

ESSIE: "No. If I draw you with a face, you'll never learn."

Wednesday, June 23, 2010


I saw my first pornfomerical last night. It’s like an infomercial that tries to be really convincing. The product is called “the blowguard” and it takes “the job out of blowjobs”. To advertise the blowguard the infomercial featured a mini-orgy with two girls and a guy trying out the blowguard (yes – X-rated) and then a guy in a lab coat discussed the use “scientifically” and then the now-dressed people from the orgy discussed what they thought of it. (FYI, they enjoyed it.)

Although I enjoyed the pornfomercial more than I did say...the demo of the Ginsu knife set and various non-stick pans that they usually show (no one has ever been squirted in the face with semen in a non-stick pan commercial to my knowledge. Unless they wanted to demonstrate that semen doesn’t stick to the pan. Does it? Why would you cook semen to begin with? Infomercials are weird), I was not convinced by the product. Basically it’s a retainer with a little vibrator attached to it. I was involuntarily and unfortunately reminded of my orthodontist throughout the whole thing. And since he was 65 years old, overweight and smelled like antiseptic it’s not an image I want in my head during intimate moments. And also I’ll feel guilty for using the now-straightened and expanded mouth my father spent 3000 dollars on for oral sex.

Top 5 self-esteem shattering comments my mother made this week

“That’s a nice picture of you. I forgot you used to be skinny.”

“I’m just teasing you about making me a grandmother. You’re probably barren from all the drinking anyway.”

“Yes, I think you should study Graphic Design. It’s not too late to make a success of your life.”

“No, I don’t think divorce is bad. Princess Di got divorced. Of course in that case the man was the adulterous whore...”

“I had a nice day. There was this woman on Dr Phil whose house was so cluttered they had to rescue her with a crane and they found dead pets behind the cupboards. It made me think of you.”

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Belle du Essie

I've been going through a Belle du Jour phase because I've stumbled on a great blog called Mounting and Counting about a great girl who's living a double life as a stripper. I've even decided to come up with a sexier persona for myself.

Belle du Essie is sexy, smart, sophisticated. Always make-upped and perfect. Aloof. Graceful.
I bet she's never hung onto the bumper of someone's car screaming "Love me, love me".

Only one problem:

Meh. It was good while it lasted.

I don't have a baby because DW will dress it funny and also I'm pretty sure I'll kill it and have ruined my hooha for nothing

I’ve been getting a lot of flack from my aunt Elma because I’m 27 and don’t have a baby and apparently my uterus is shrivelling up as we speak. So I’d like to clarify why I don’t have a baby yet.

1. No sex
Although I’m could not entirely be sure from all the conversations with my mom about storks and baby gardens and magical wishes granted by Jesus, I’m pretty sure that sex is essential to pregnancy. So unless a star appears in the East, it’s not going to happen.

2. I like my vagina the way it is
At least I’m PRETTY sure that I do. I’ve never really looked at it. But I haven’t had any complaints so I don’t really relish the thought of having it stretched to the size of a football. Besides all that shit I read online about washboard vajayjays and getting stapled back together after childbirth put me off. Really, you should blame Google.

3. My addictions
The antidepressants, alcohol, cigarettes and even cat litter that I use all say that they should not be used during pregnancy. (To clarify –I don’t use cat litter personally. The cat does. He doesn’t like to go outside to tinkle when it’s rainy. His feet get wet. Of course he didn’t care about wet feet when he climbed onto my paint palette and then trodded expensive oil colors all over the antique German tablecloth my mother-in-law loaned me. Also, I’m kind of my cat’s bitch, and I’m pretty sure that should deny me having parenting privileges.)

4. Poop
I don’t want to voluntary deal with other people’s poop. And everyone says “Oh that’s just until they’re potty-trained. It’s not a big deal.” YES IT FUCKING IS. They poop in a plastic pot. It doesn’t magically flush away. It’s RIGHT there. Glamorize it all you want, you will still spend a good deal of your day transporting and disposing of poop.

5. Boredom
When you get a child you also have to put all these security lockdowns and screening software on your PC so they don’t get kidnapped by predators. And I just don’t have the technical knowhow to disable something like that. GOODBYE ASIAN SQUID PORN.

6. Infanticide
I am about 99.5% certain that any baby of mine will die a horrible death as soon as it starts to crawl. (Real life conversation: “DW, what’s this in the fridge?” “It’s liquid nitrogen. I got it from the guy next door. You freeze bull semen with it.” “K.” Enough said.)

7. Judgement
My mother-in-law is the neatest person I know. When DW’s cousin had her baby she would bring it over and my mother-in-law would REWASH it because she felt the baby wasn’t clean enough. And then we’d all say mean things about the cousin and what a shitty mother she is behind her back. It’s petty, but I like to part of the group. My mother-in-law is very clever. She also likes to pack out her jewelry box and show me all the rings inside and then she says, “All of this will be yours once I’m dead”. Which is part of the reason I’m not divorced yet. And also why I encouraged her to take up smoking.

Also DW will borrow the baby from me and then pictures like these will pop up on the Internet. And my child will get emotional issues and gun down a bunch of people with the turret gun I had put up on the roof for the impending zombie apocalypse. And I’ll have the press going through my trash to see what kind of mother raises a serial killer and they’ll find all my half-used bottles of peach flavoured lube and about forty pounds of cat hair.

Tom Cruise and other natural disasters

I watched War of the Worlds last night and have come to an important conclusion. Unlike War of the Worlds, the BP oil spill isn't an entirely bad thing. At the moment there is no way aliens are going to spend all that rocket fuel travelling millions of miles to invade Earth. No one wants to invade a shithole. Well done, BP!

What women want (or alternatively how to score with me in 11 steps. In theory this post applies to all women.)

I was reading this article about what women want and I thought I'd jot down what I want but then I realized no one is really concerned with that, so I've generalized it and wrote this thing about what ALL women want.

1. Care about our fantasies.

I have this fantasy where we up on the washing machine really going at it while he loads it up with dirty, pre-treated laundry and detergent, and then vaccuums the whole house with one hand and wipes the counter. In fact, the sex part is optional. In fact, if I could be lying in bed at the time, eating bonbons and watching Dr Phil it would be perfect.

2. Don’t embarrass us.

My friend really enjoys a bit of anal lovin’ but she’s too shy to ask for it, so she kept asking the guy to touch her “rosebud” and “strawberry” and “gate into the daffodil fields” (or whatever). Instead of laughing at her, he kept touching random bits of her body and going, “ Here? Am I getting warmer?” I think that is incredibly sweet and generous. (As a side note before the really perverted jerk who keeps emailing me asking me about my sex life but I don’t want to block for various self-esteem related reasons asks me, NO I don’t have a special word I like to use for my ass. But if I ever I shout “Touch me in my George W Bush” that’s what I’m referring to.)

3. “Get” our sense of humor and agree with our politics.

I want your face to have lit up and go “Oh...because George W Bush is an asshole!” just now, or I won’t consider you.

4. Be different.

I once went on a date with a black Zimbabwean medical student who loved bowling and Country & Western music. There would have been a second date because he was really great but then we went out for pizza and he started explaining to me how my colon works. That’s less of a turn-on for me.

5. I really dig honesty in a person.

And I have almost NO standards/inhibitions/shame, so whatever creepy/disturbing/perverted thing you confess to me is just going to end up on my blog and make me love you even more.

6. Don’t be put off by a woman’s baggage. Don’t be scared to be the rebound guy.

The guy I dated BEFORE I got married thought he had cracked the space/time continuum and invented a teleporter. We just couldn’t see him teleport anywhere. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have gone out with DW. He made DW look good. (And DW makes dating men who are still in prison look good.)

7. A cool mother is very attractive.

I know you all think your moms are cool, but they AREN’T. And for some reason most moms hate me. (Except my friend Matt’s mom, who says she bets I give great blowjobs. So I like her for a) being perceptive and b) for making Matt totally uncomfortable. In fact, part of the package of being my husband/boyfriend/friend is that I really enjoy your total and utter humiliation and public degradation. Sorry. I’m in therapy about that.)

8. Be yourself but also be a gentleman sometimes.

That means you are allowed to fart but don’t shove my head under the covers to make me smell it. Like I said, I have low standards.

9. Or be George Clooney.

You can’t go wrong.

10. Be into her.

I like it when men are really into me. I hate aloof and cool men because I’m not aloof and cool AT ALL. By the time you have asked me out I will have already cut pictures from magazines and compiled a mugshot of what our future children might look like. I like when they want to see me four Saturdays in a row, make me a mix tape and go grocery shopping with me. Because it’s bonding. Ok...not really. I just can’t reach the cereal that I like by myself. In fact just get me the pink cereal with the little marshmellows and then you can fuck off home.

11. Acceptance

I blog about people I love. By the 3rd date the entire Internet will know how big your penis is. I laugh at inappropriate, sad moments in the movies where people die (my fave being where Vin Diesel’s girlfriend dies in The Chronicles of Riddick. He looks like my cat does when he’s constipated). I throw shit when I get angry. I am obsessive about having extravagant birthdays centered entirely around me even though I say I don’t want anything. I like having stupid nicknames. I really, really like Cat Stevens and music from various Disney movies even though I deny it vehemently. I don’t shave my legs in winter. I drive like a maniac. I steal road signs as a hobby. I own close to 900 books and refuse to get rid of them. If there is any kind of scab, pimple or bump on your body I WILL try to prick it with a needle. (I don’t know why. Again – therapy.) And there is nothing more attractive than a man who is cool with all of that.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Penises, BP execs and I know less about politics than it appears

My friend Matt got me hooked on this website called Huffington post. It's got all the American political happenings on it. (I don't really care about American politics but I'm really into Matt and am going to throw random political buzzwords at him until he is sufficiently impressed to marry me. If you don't understand this, it's called being a woman. It's kinda like that thing you guys do when you memorize our erogenous zones and pretend that you like going to the Farmer's Market and watching Grey's Anatomy. Men are such hypocrites.)

Anyway they had this picture up on there of the new BP executives:

I wanted to say something intelligent to Matt about the article, but I swear to God all I could see:

Essie: "Am I right? Am I right?"
Matt: "You have an odd little brain."
Essie: "C'mon, that's totally what that picture says."
Matt: "What exactly would they be peeing on?"
Essie (pause, profound voice): "The environment, Mattie. The environment."

My friends have no taste

Someone sent me a gag gift I'm not sure how to use. I think it could be the world's most annoying sex toy. It's an electronic yodelling pickle.  We should re-market the thing.

Do you like fantasizing about Swedes Hungarians whoever it is that yodels? Well, now you can!

But the "on" button looks like someone's nail. You'll probably just feel like you are being fingered by Shrek. And the sound of muffled yodelling is a real turn-off. Not that I would know. I'm assuming...I mean. Don't judge me. It's been a while.

All's quiet on the Blogging Front

Well, I haven't been blogging much over the weekend because my mom is here with me while DW is in Namibia eating balls.

8 pm: She goes to bed. Complains the house is "too dark".
5 am: Wakes up. Complains sleeping has ruined her back.
8 am: I leave for work. I'm usually leave home at 9 am. But she's worried I'm "going to be late, as usual". (This was also the reason I showed up early for my own wedding)
9 am: Text message: "Will it kill u to sweep ur floor once in a while?"
10 am: Text message: "How do I turn on Dr Phil? Your TV does not make sense"
11 am: Text message: "All the cat hair on the couch is giving me hair fever. U should buy a cat hair brush."
1 pm: Text message: "Aw, the cat is lying on my lap watching TV."
2 pm: Test message: "Please buy more hay fever medicine. I think cleaning the couch has made me sick."

In addition, I fell off the porch drunk and re-cracked my previously cracked rib. But as long as I don't inhale or exhale it doesn't hurt.

Saturday, June 19, 2010


I called my dad to let him know I’ve put up a post for him on the blog. Here’s his reaction (I don’t know what I was expecting).
ESSIE: “Hey, Daddy.”
DAD (long silence)
ESSIE: “Hello?”
DAD: “Your mom’s gone out.”
ESSIE: “I know. She’s at my house, Dad.”
DAD (long silence): “Oh.”
ESSIE: “I just wanted to let you know I’ve put a message up for you on my blog.”
DAD (long silence): “Your block?”
ESSIE: “No b-l-o-g. Blog. It’s that thing I write on the internet?”
DAD: “You wrote a book?”
ESSIE: “NO, it’s on the internet.”
DAD: “You getting paid?”
ESSIE: “No, it’s for fun.”
DAD: “What does it cost?”
ESSIE: “It’s FREE, dad, it’s free, anyone can put one up. You can put one up.”
DAD: “I already have a job.”
ESSIE: “It’s not a job. It’s FOR FUN.”
DAD: “Why did I pay for college if you are spending all your time having fun? I coulda’ sent you to clown college. Then we’d all be having fun.”
ESSIE: “OK, daddy, nice talking to you. I’m gonna go now, OK?”
DAD: “OK.”

Friday, June 18, 2010

Father's Day Ideas (for those of you who are really willing to scrape the barrel)

What do you get the man who has everything? Don't know how to spend the hard-earned money your mom sneaks to you when you sneak in your laundry?

Here are the top 7 gifts to give your dad this year...he'll be speechless!

1. Fresh Balls: ball sweat reducing lotion. Check out the promotional video (no, really!) on There is also a His/Hers pack for Christmases and anniversaries. But speaking as a woman, I think it’s safe to say that your lady is going to be offended if you give her a bottle of ball lotion.
2. The Orgasmo Clock. It wakes you up with the sound of a woman orgasming. Although in my experience, that’s usually the sound that gives a guy permission to go to sleep, not wake up.

3. The Smug Mug. See attached picture. Can you imagine your daddy waking up to something to that in the middle of the night? Hope his PST from his military days doesn't flare up too bad.

4. Bling Your Bitch – no, no, not your mom. It’s a line of designer dog collars. As seen on Oprah!

5. A beer mug made out of bacon. 'Nuff said.

6. A Zombie pinup. Where Beauty Eats Brains!  You can buy this year's edition from the friendly folks of Boy, the zombie modelling world has really taken off!

7. Pornogami. Apparently it's the "Ancient Art of Erotic Paper Folding". Now you know what Sun Tzu did on a rainy day.

And on a side note I'd like to wish my dad a very happy father's day. You are the best dad in the world, and I love you.

STAIRS: We got the acronym. All we need now is for Bono to record the fundraising single

MEDICAL BREAKTHOROUGH! I’ve discovered that I suffer from a serious medical condition I’ve just made up and am also trying to raise money for.
It’s Synchronised Transferred Alcohol-Induced Rage Syndrome. It’s why no one ever wants to go to bars with me.
I sit down, I drink rum, I start getting under the impression that I’m charming. Of course, although my rants on my blog about Vagina Day, Asian squid porn and flappophobia is somewhat endearing, when I’m drunk and gushing about it at 2 am, people don’t seem to “get it”. The next stage involves completely unjustified and unprovoked anger attacks aimed at really, really large men named Leo.

ESSIE: “Yo, you...Leo! suck fackin’ suck...”

LEO: “Go away.”

ESSIE: “” (shakes head more than necessary) “My friend shaysh...he gonna kick your assh...”

LEO: “Did you just steal my tequila?"

ESSIE (calling): “Yo! Yo, Steve? Steve! Kick this guys’ assh! Kick it!”

STEVE (pretends not to know me)

ESSIE: “Yeah, now you gonna get it...”

If there are any other sufferers out there, please contact me. We need to decide what color our ribbon is going to be. (Apparently orange has already been taken by those Alzheimer assholes, but they won’t remember that. I vote orange.)

Creepiest Father's Day Holiday Package ever

Why I am scared of Little People...

I've mentioned before that I am afraid of little people. Before you all call me a prejudiced prick (I'm not...except towards people who think the moonlanding happened, the members of the Tea Party and assholes that keep sending Farmville gifts on Facebook. And cyclists. They suck.) there is a good reason for it.

This goes back to 2003 when I went to a dinner party with some friends. Someone had brought their friend who is a "little person". I was seated next to aforementioned little person. The waiter brought us a round of drinks served in tiny little flasks and I turned to the little person and said loudly and unavoidably, "Oooh, I feel like we're in the Shire!" 
The conversation went downhill from there.

ESSIE: "You know...with the hobbits?"

LP: (blank, judgmental stare)

ESSIE: "Not that YOU are a hobbit...the flasks are hobbity."

LP: (blank stare)

ESSIE: "Or not. Maybe they aren't. I don't know anything about hobbits. Not that YOU would. Because you are short."

LP: (blank stare)

ESSIE: "Not short. I mean you're special. Not in a bad way. In a good way. I mean you can do anything a normal person can do."

LP: (blank stare)


ESSIE: "Not that you aren't normal. You are normal."

This goes on for several hours. And then it just got worse and worse. At the movies with DW, there was a little (i.e. child) little person standing next to the wall outside and I LOUDLY said, "OMG, it's a little midget". The little little person heard. Everyone else heard. I never went to the movies again. The last movie I ever saw was Batman Begins. (This is an exaggeration. I download movies illegally now. If the police ever bust me, I think I have a valid reason for doing it.)

And then it got to the point where a little person knocked on my window begging for change while I was on my way to Japansese class.

DW: "Look honey! It's a LITTLE person!"

Essie: "I know, I know!" (panicked) "Give it some money, maybe it'll go away!"

DW: "Awww, he's so cute. Roll down your window, see what he wants!"

Essie (climbing over seat into back of the car): "No! If he gets in, how are we going to get him out?"

LP: (blank stare)

I then attempted to justify my fears to DW by fabricating folklore on the Internet as to how little people steal your souls and can turn you to stone by just staring at you. I stole a lot of it from the Spanish myth of the "cockatrice", which I found out about by total accident as I was googling porn. If you don't understand why I did this, you just don't understand our relationship. At all.

Inappropriate Uses for your pet

"Inappropriate Uses for your pet" or "Why my cat needs a hip replacement". I can't choose.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Some day I'll have a REAL love life...

(on the phone to friend)

Essie: "Did you see my blog post about the Grow-a-boyfriend?"

Ann: "Yeah."
Essie: "Well I totally changed my mind about it in the last five minutes. Get this: it COMES IN DIFFERENT COLORS. I ordered the blue one. Remember that sex dream I had about Dr Manhattan from the Watchmen??"

Ann: "I'm trying to forget."

Essie: "But now I feel like I'm cheating on my boyfriend pillow...It's kinda exciting, in a very wrong way..."

Ann (pause): "Remember when we used to go to bars and date real men? As in, homo sapiens?"

Essie: "Not...really."

Do not play the "I'm more pathetic than you" game with me. You will not win.

There is nothing I loathe love more than getting an email from a good friend titled “Saw this and thought of you” and then clicking on the link and finding something that shatters my self-esteem. Apparently as of late there is something about me that just screams “I need to grow my own, plastic boyfriend”. Grow-a-boyfriend is a little plastic man that you put into water and then he “magically” expands. I’m not making the shit up. He only costs 2 dollars and grows about 600% if you leave him in the tub. (I tried coming up with a good penis joke, but couldn’t. Any suggestions?)

The marketing spiel on it says:
• Grow the perfect boyfriend!
• Great for a friend who has just broken up!
• For entertainment purposes only, not for consumption! (So, not only am I going through a devastating separation, apparently I have no standards and cannot be trusted not to eat plastic.)

My favourite part is the little enthusiastic unique selling points that they’ve highlighted on the packaging:
“He’s Polite”
“He never snores”
“Never look at your credit card bills”
“Always shuts up”
“Never argues, always agrees”

Great. We have found the perfect man. And he’s an eyeless, mouthless plastic glob that grows in water. I never should have turned down that jellyfish that asked me out at the beach last summer. Oh how happy I could have been...

The worst thing for me, though, was the little line that says “Free Movie and Dinner Date”, as if I had reached such a state of pathetic-ness that I would actually fill a tub of water, inflate this thing, dry it off, dress it up and drag it to see 50 First Dates at the Mall.

I’m beginning to suspect that this is an elaborate scheme that my therapist hatched in order to keep me coming back for sessions, but I can’t confront her on it because then she’ll want to treat me for paranoia. (That woman loves Jimmy Choo shoes and she will milk my mother issues until she has a matching handbag. Yeah, I’m on to you, bitch!)

The Biggest literally

Some remarked that I've lost a lot of weight, and they would like to know my secret. So I've broken down my diet for you in this easy pie chart.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Happy International Vagina Day!

(on phone to girlfriend)

Essie: "Happy International Vagina Day!"

Dee: "What?"

Essie: "It's international vagina day on June 15th. I woke up and I just KNEW I was forgetting something."

Dee: "Really?

Essie: "What? You didn't get me a card??"

Dee: "I'm not sure Hallmark makes those yet..."

Essie: "This is the worst Vagina day ever."

Dee: "Fine. Does the card go to you or your hooha?"

Essie: "I think...both. I even found this bakery that makes rainbow vagina cupcakes."

Dee: "What am I suppose to write inside?"

Essie: "I saw one online that said "My love for you is dear and true, unlike your clitoris, which i am not sure even exists."

Dee: "Speaking of...isn't it DW's birthday today?"

Essie (pause): "Crap."

What bushbabies are really thinking

Minotaurs are the new vampires

I read this article about how publishers are desperate to find the next supernatural craze – desperate to tap into the next Twilight market. According to Graham Childress they are throwing their weight behind a series of novels featuring...”a bad-boy minotaur who transfers to a new high school and eventually falls for the one girl who can see the pain and sensitivity behind his brooding exterior”. Rival publishers are going to be launching books “featuring a bad-boy mummy, a bad-boy cyclops, and a bad-boy Mayan vision serpent”.

I’ve brainstormed some of my own ideas, though. BETTER ones.

1. BP executives are the new vampires.
 Are they really as evil as we think they are? Picture a combo of Edward Cullen, There Will Be Blood Star Daniel Day-Lewis, and Barney Stinson from How I met your mother. I’d tap that.

2. Fairies are the new vampires.
No, really. I was all into Anne Geddes-like sweet little fairies until I started reading these books about how the Irish believed they used to steal children, bathe their clothes in blood and eat your souls if you didn’t put out cream for them. If that doesn’t scare you, you must be fearless. Or ignorant. Or an ironmonger. (They are allergic, y’know. In fact, we could have a girl with an iron peg in her head fall in love with the lead fairy. That would be awesome.)

3. Midgets are the new vampires.
 I’ve had a fear of “little people” ever since I noticed that make an utter ass of myself around them. More about that later.*

4. Mermaids are the new vampires.
Every single man I know has fantasized about the Little Mermaid at least ONCE. It’s the seashell bra. And they have scales. And they totally drowned sailors back in the 1700s. But now they are back, and just misunderstood. Like True Blood. Only with less sex. Because they have tails down there.

5. The Kashardians are the new vampires.
They are inexplicably wealthy. People are enthralled by them. They never age.

6. The Loch Ness Worm is the new vampire.

7. The Yeti are the new vampires.
It’s a fine line between dating a Yeti and dating a really hairy guy. We’ve all been there. In fact, you may have already had your own taboo interspecies relationship and not known it. Scary shit, people.

*As a side note, there was an awesome B Grade movie made about Midget Vampires called “Anklebiters”. I’m not making this up. I’ve spent a lot of time browsing the “half-off” DVD section at the mall.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

More weird shit named after me

I found a book that is totally based on my life called Essie's Garden. Here's what the blurb on the back says:

All Leona wanted to do on a drab day in the village of Spellbound was to help her mother bake cupcakes. Instead, Leona's mother sends her to visit with Essie, a very old woman who lives in a shadowy estate down the street. Essie lets Leona wear her enchanted gold necklace, then tricks her into taking an adventure through a magic garden. Leona, the youngest witch in a family of witches and wizards, discovers that Essie's Garden is about to be destroyed. Unless Leona can master the power of the golden necklace and face the fiery dragon, the garden and all its weird and wonderful inhabitants will disappear forever.

It's like they've been watching my life. Cupcake-baking women send their children to my house ALL the time.

Essie lets Leona wear her enchanted gold necklace (anniversary present from DW) then tricks her into taking an adventure through a magic garden (i.e. weeding). Leona, the youngest witch in a family of witches and wizards (the Breytenbachs, down the road), discovers that Essie's Garden is about to be destroyed (too late, that thing is already fucked. I can't be bothered to water the place). Unless Leona can master the power of the golden necklace (it IS tricky to take it off, I broke the clasp) and face the fiery dragon (Mrs Bertie?), the garden and all its weird and wonderful inhabitants (the two gay landlords and our friend Marius) will disappear forever.

Awesome. I hope Charlize Theron will play me in the movie version.

Marriage sex, loch ness monsters and other things that don't exist

Just read this shocking story about a woman who got fired from her job because she had premarital sex. How can people be against premarital sex??? I've been married, trust me there is no other kind.

Star Wars Lingerie - now there's a white elephant if I ever bought one

Ever since teenage boys first watched Star Wars 20-odd years ago and Princess Leia appeared in her infamous golden bikini and tighty-whitey futuristic uniforms, men have been fantisizing about characters from the movies (apparently).

Anyway I found a site that sells Star Wars Lingerie. Too bad Star Wars geeks don't really get laid.

My cat is such an asshole

I totally forgot to buy my cat, Sweeny Todd, some dinner last night. I think naming your kitten after a serial killer sets a bad precedent. He walked up to me, meowed, rejected the pork sausage I offered him and then sat eyeing me as I watched TV...with blood lust in his eyes. I've attached photos.
It's this very thing that reminds me why I don't support vegetarians. They always say, "Oh, well, you wouldn't eat your cat, would you?" And no, I wouldn't. But MY CAT WOULD EAT ME. Eyes first. If I slipped in the shower and died tomorrow, you would find my half-eaten corpse in the bathroom, buck-naked. And its not like I don't put kibble out for him. He probably just prefers human flesh. It's disturbing. Why do I even a have a pet?
Oh social life. Never mind. I made my bed, I must lie in it.

It's DW's birthday! Let's honor his legacy by stuffing up something simple!

DW is turning 25 years old today! I wish everyone in the world could have a spouse like him! God knows I shouldn't have to suffer alone!

So let's raise our plastic cannisters of bull semen and put on our pimp shoes and honor the inspiration behind the blog...Happy Birthday DW!

PS. No, I'm not getting him anything for his birthday. Birthday presents are like oral sex, I only give to receive. And I really don't need another Jamie Oliver frying pan.

Monday, June 14, 2010

If men were machine washable maybe they wouldn't die out but as it stands - they have clearly outlived their usefulness

I spoke to my friend Mattie over the weekend. He's thinking of what to send me for my birthday. So this link pops up.

MATTIE: "I'm thinking of getting you this."

ESSIE: "You're thinking of getting me half a sex doll?"

MATTIE: "It's a boyfriend pillow. They designed it for women whose men are in Iraq."

ESSIE: "To train them to get used to husband's with blown off legs?"
MATTIE (pauses): "No..."

I really, really want one now. But I'll probably get attached to it. And it's better than a boyfriend because it is machine washable, refundable and in case you haven't noticed - well dressed. And it doesn't fart in bed. Really, I think it could replace the real thing.