Let’s talk about this white privilege I’ve heard so much about

 

One time, back in high school, two of my friends gave me the ‘friends test’. Like most high school girls, both wanted to make sure I was their true BFF – probably for the purpose of manipulating me later. So like sneaky high school girls had a tendency to do back in the 90s, both called me at once. One spoke, the other listened on speaker phone.

I suppose I wasn’t supposed to know this at the time but also – I knew.  You know, on account of not being retarded and teenage girls don’t know how to control their breathing while trying to silently listen to something. So when Girl One asked me “If there was an accident, and me and Girl Two got thrown out of the car and you were the only survivor and you were holding my hand, but also Girl Two’s hand, who would you drop if we were both dangling off a cliff”

Now, I knew that I was supposed to say I’d hold onto Girl One’s hand. At the very least. I could have given an excuse to hold onto Girl Two’s hand. But instead, I answered “Neither. I would have let you both drop.”

“Why?” Girl One asked.

“Because there’s no right answer to the question and holding both your fat asses up would seriously damage my shoulders.” Then, I hung up the phone and went back to watching Friends.

That, aside from being the story of how I lost my first best friend, also encompasses my philosophy of life. It’s all about me.  Here’s a Tupac song to underline the statement.

The whole ‘white privilege” category is that dumb assed, mean girl phone call on a mass scale. There’s no right answer and it’s designed to make you feel guilty for just being you. There is no answer you can give that will satisfy everyone. You’re the villain, just for being who you are.

Your only response, if you make one at all, can be apathy.

Know why I’ve never been to a protest? I don’t have time. When I’m not working, I’m recovering from working and waiting to go to work again. I don’t protest because I don’t have time for frivolous, nonsense gibberish. I don’t protest because I know better. I know the only way to change the world is with cold hard cash.

But I still have children telling me I’m ‘privileged’. Let’s be honest. Most of the kids spitting out the whole ‘white privilege’ thing are children who’ve never had to deal with adversity in their lives.

I have. I’m not particularly pretty. I’m not particularly smart. Just regular, but for the fact that I’m socially awkward. I have yet to have someone approach me and promise to take care of me and all my problems for nothing. I have yet to be given something that I didn’t work my ass off for.

I’ve spent most of my life working, specifically because I’m not particularly pretty and I’m not smart. I’m no one special. But still, I’ve managed to accomplish a lot of things. You don’t get to write off everything good I’ve done as ‘white privilege’ for the same reason you don’t get to write off everything wrong you’ve done because of ‘minority disillusionment’. Otherwise, we’d both be McDonald’s managers.

So no, white privilege is not a thing. I don’t know what it is to be you, but at the same time, you don’t get to tell me what it’s like to be me. That’s the tradeoff.

That’s why the whole ‘white privilege’ thing is a mean girl’s question. There’s no right answer you can give.

So you don’t need to answer the question. You just need to hang up the phone.

The Full Griswold

In the year and a half since I published last, a lot of things have happened in the world. Terrorist attacks, racism, anti-racism that still manages to be racism, a weird orange Muppet getting elected – so many important issues.

Important issues are boring.   Here’s a story about me getting drunk and falling out of my crawlspace instead.

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I moved recently. I gave up the joys of apartment living for the burden of house living. Now, keep in mind no bank in their right mind would give me a mortgage – unless we’re talking about Bill and Tony’s Upstairs Hollywood Bank (a tribal company). It’s a rental house, in one of those pre-fab neighborhoods where everything looks the same. It’s also the first place I’ve ever rented that includes a garage. On top of that garage was a mysterious crawlspace.

Me and my son were fascinated/afraid of the crawlspace. We mentioned going up there to check things out more than a few times, the same way people talk about going back to school or getting their finances in order. Like “here’s some big lofty plan that I will talk about but never take action on.”

It likely would have stayed that way for years but for one night after I’d finished a six pack of courage. Instead of doing what I usually do when buzzed – going online and starting internet flame wars – I decided to be proactive. I was going to defeat that crawlspace.

So with a courageous squaring of my shoulders, I announced my intentions to my son. Then, I shit you not, I said the one line that no drunken redneck should ever say.

“Hold my beer. Watch this.”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a crawlspace before, but here’s what you need to know. You want to avoid the beams entirely and put all your weight on the ceiling tiles. Just really get in there and bear down.

Ok, not really. That’s the opposite of what you want to do.

However, having never been in a crawlspace before, it did not occur to me that those tiles might be made of equal parts tissue paper and talcum powder. I have since learned my lesson and also heard “you know you’re supposed to stand on the beams, right?” about 7 billion times.

I made it about one square in before there was an ominous crackling. It sounded like the tiles were trying to tell me something. I crouched down a little closer and I distinctly heard it whisper “You know you’re supposed to walk on the beams, right?” before I promptly fell through and bounced off the hood of my mom’s Pontiac.

Yes, to add insult to injury, I was hit by a parked car.

As my left arm was rapidly swelling and I’d just dropped twelve feet onto concrete, my mother elected to call 911. I had three problems with that decision;

  1. I am consistently uninsured.  My health insurance plan is simple and free; death.
  2. Medicine is guesswork in a lab coat at best, witchcraft at worst.
  3. I was pretty sure I wasn’t dead

When the ambulance arrived, I was unable to answer the incredibly complicated triage questions such as “what’s your address” and “who’s the president? “I failed this portion of the Q & A because of this crippling disorder I have that makes me incapable of taking anything seriously. Below is a transcript:

Paramedic:  What’s your address?

Me: Shouldn’t you know that? You just drove here. You been drinking?

Paramedic: <visibly repressed sigh> Who’s the president?

Me: Uh, Obama?

Paramedic: No, it’s Trump.

Me: <snort> He ain’t my president.

Paramedic: <not even a chuckle, must be a conservative> How did this happen?

Me: I fell through my crawlspace.

Paramedic: You know you’re supposed to walk on the beams, right?

Anyway, they got me to the hospital where they provided excellent, immediate medical treatment. Just kidding, I laid on a stretcher in a neck brace I didn’t need, with an IV to nowhere in my hand. No joke, it wasn’t attached to anything. They just shoved an IV starter needle in my hand for – reasons. I was visited promptly by one medical person though.

The hospital billing administrator who wanted to know how I’d be paying. He was not satisfied by my answer. Specifically, “I’ll be paying two years from now, after negotiating a significant discount through the collection agency that buys my account.”

So that’s my story about what I did to my crawlspace. Unless you’re my landlord. If you are, it was like that when I moved in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Been awhile

I stopped publishing on this blog awhile ago on account of like 14 people read it and I realized I wasn’t that important. But despite that, this is my space and we’re going to roll with my fantasy, which involves me walking back onto this site via the theme song;

 

If you were one of my followers in the past, I’m Essa, I still exist and I still need a place to vent.  So I’m back and I plan on talking about absolutely nothing important in the near future. Even gibberish deserves a platform.

Rock on.

You Are the Problem

 

The Harvard Business Review published an interesting study recently. In it, they actually isolated a ‘drama’ gene, proving that certain people are more prone to drama than others. These individuals tended to blow minor slights out of proportion, view any criticism as a personal attack, and stay bitter about minor incidents for years afterwards. But the thing that struck me the most about these drama lovers was their most common trait.

The locus of control. The locus of control is simply a fancy psychosocial way of describing how you view your impact on the world. I have an internal locus of control, in that I believe that my actions change the world. On the flip, a person with an external locus of control would believe that the world changes their actions.

Just to give examples;

Internal locus of control: “Wow, my choice to tweet Holocaust jokes on Hitler’s birthday sure pissed a lot of people off.”

External locus of control: “Why is everyone attacking my political opinion about how the Holocaust never happened? Twitter is just filled with crazy liberals.”

Now me, I always thought that my own internal locus of control was the worse one to have because it seems narcissistic to think that the entire world changes because of you. But now that I think about it, coming at the world from an ‘everyone is against me’ standpoint is far more narcissistic.

I mean, how important do you think you are that people would actually seek you out to discredit you? Isn’t it possible that someone just thinks you’re an asshole? And Harvard backed me up because it turns out people with an external locus of control report higher levels of conflict in their personal lives.

Let me try to explain with an anecdote. I have this friend Gina. Gina is a lightening bolt when it comes to relationships. What I mean is that Gina goes on a date with a dude and ZAP; his relationship status on Facebook is updated and she’s moved half her shit into his place, while waiting to see if the pregnancy test was just a false alarm. She barely knows these dudes, moves in with them, and suddenly gets all shocked when it falls apart after three months.

Then, she calls them the psychos. She never recognizes her own culpability, nor her ENTIRE responsibility, for the situation. It’s always the world doing shit to her. I mean, she decides to let a jobless loser live with her after the third date, and three months after she’s surprised when he’s still a jobless loser? The girl who hates drama is causing her own drama.

I’ve found that to be the truth about a lot of people who claim to hate drama. They’ll talk all day about being above it all, but then, after a while you notice, that’s all they talk about. They are never responsible in their own heads, but entirely responsible in real life.   They’re just incapable of connecting the two.

So what that Harvard study taught me is if you spend a fuckton of time talking about all the drama that other people cause in your life, its not just statistically likely, it’s a scientific fact that YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.

Let’s look at it from a scientific point of view.

    • About 87% of computer viruses start as a form of human error. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • 78% of adult-onset diabetes cases are a direct result of the nutritional choices of the individual with diabetes. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • Only 1% of identity theft claims are valid cases of criminal hacking. The other 99% are a result of individuals giving out their credit card information irresponsibly. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • Warnings about internet scams have existed for twenty years, but despite that, about 300,000 people fall victim to internet scams annually because they elect not to seek out advice. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.
    • If everyone in your life treats you badly, your friends don’t like you and everyone seems to talk shit about you all the time…YOU ARE THE PROBLEM!!! Consider the fact that you might, just might, be a complete asshole who no one wants to be around

Look people, dickish behavior doesn’t happen in a vacuum. I know a lot of people who have a lot of drama in their lives and they all have one thing in common. They’re the kind of people who consider “you call me a bitch like it’s a bad thing” their catch phrase. Here’s the deal. It is bad to be a bitch. Bitches are mean. They’re rude, thoughtless and unpleasant to be around. They think niceness is a sign of weakness, when real strong people know that niceness is an asset.

It costs nothing yet gains you everything.

Dramatic individuals don’t get that. If you don’t, there is a very good chance that you have a lot of drama in your life. You think you’re not causing it, but you are. The world is not controlling you. You’re trying to passively aggressively control the world. But the world doesn’t react to passive aggression. So either embrace aggression, or reject it entirely, but don’t claim to be a victim of it. Because deep down, we all know one thing, and it’s been scientifically proven.

You are the problem.

 

I know what you’re searching for….

There are three topics that bring people to my blog time and time again. In order of popularity, they are;

  1. How to pass a drug test
  2. How to use the darknet (ironic, because half the reason you’d need to pass a drug test would be because of shit you bought off the darknet)
  3. When’s the 2016 Suzuki Hayabusa coming out?

Many of the people searching these terms had questions which my articles failed to address. In the interest of being thorough, I will address these questions now.

How much bleach do I need to pass for meth on a drug test?

Um, you’re fucking kidding, right? Are you asking about drinking bleach or pouring it into your urine? Drinking the bleach will definitely make it so you don’t have to take the drug test – on account of you’ll be dead. Pouring bleach directly into your urine sample will likely result in you being pulled for a higher caliber test, when it’s shown that your urine has more chlorine than the average swimming pool. Meth will stay in your system for three to five days, so just put the damn pipe down for a week and you’ll be cool. Don’t drink bleach and don’t put it in your pee.

Will meth help me pass a drug test for weed?

No, meth won’t help you pass a drug test. I cannot comprehend the idiocy which gave birth to that particular line of logic. Smoking meth to pass a drug test would be a bit like eating pancakes to cure diabetes. The only thing that will happen if you smoke meth to get weed out of your system is you’ll test positive for both and wind up in court-ordered rehab. I’m assuming that this idea comes from the fact that amphetamines speed metabolism, which could actually be counterintuitive. Marijuana has an oil base, which makes it attach to other oils like human fat. Speeding up your metabolism is more likely to release old metabolites than it is to get rid of new ones.

Time and water, those are your options. That’s it. Time and water. There is no magic cure. If there was, no one would ever fail a drug test and probation would be obsolete.

How do I buy meth on the darknet?

What is it with you people and meth? Look, the darknet is crazy expensive for everything but weed. Weed’s cheap because of legal competition. Meth, not so much. If you’re hard up, yes you can buy it there but it’s going to cost you a fuckton and to be honest, I’ve never met a rich meth addict. Check out the Darknet subreddit to get specific info regarding PGP, Bitcoin and black markets. Just note there’s a learning curve and if you’re one of those who can barely send an attachment via email, you’re not going to be able to do it.

When does the new Suzuki Hayabusa come out?

I have no fucking clue. I wrote the article a long time ago, for some scammer who never paid me, and slapped it up on my site so they couldn’t use it. The only info I can give you about any scooter is something my dad said a long time ago.

“Scooters are like fat chicks. They’re fun to ride till your friends see you on one.”

That’s all I got. Hope I clarified a few things, because I learned a few things myself. Those things are;

  • A lot of meth users come to my site.
  • The vast majority of those meth users are idiots who I should be encouraging to drink bleach
  • The Suzuki Hayabusa is the preferred mode of transportation for meth heads everywhere.

 

 

In Regards to My OFFICIAL NOTICE OF TRASH VIOLATION

I am filled with deep shame. I came home to learn I had violated the Trash Code of Conduct and had been singled out as part of a special Trash Control Task Force (Or TCTF for short) when it was noted that I’d committed the following offense;

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Side note; this is the place where I once saw a fully nude man, but for a pair of sneakers, attempt to burn his girlfriend’s apartment building down. And this was not the first, nor the last time outdoor nudity was fully embraced by my delightful Florida neighbors.

But that is no excuse for my behavior and I am suitably ashamed of my box. Despite my usual cleanliness with it, during the winter months I have a tendency to let it get out of control.

All sexually charged apologies aside, I did need some clarification on a few of the items in the OFFICIAL NOTICE OF TRASH VIOLATION. Please clarify the following;

  • Always use your trash can

Every single day, all the time? Seems a little impractical to carry that large box around everywhere I go, but hey I’ll slap some straps on it and carry it as a backpack. So my questions are; do you have any straps, and does the box come in blue?

  • Blue bags are for recycling only

All the blue bags? Complete autonomy on all my box and bag related activities seems a bit excessive for the cost of $25 per month, especially seeing I’ve never recycled in my life. I mean you aren’t my mother, stop attempting to control my life.  I have no desire to recycle my blue bags but if you have a blue trash can/backpack, I’ll trade you.

  • Trash must not weigh more than 25 pounds

What about my large gemstone collection that I’ve grown bored with? I suppose I will have Jeeves take it to my personal vault. My question here is; How rich do you think I am that I have at least 25 pounds of stuff to throw away? What do you think I do in here, run a bakery/meth lab?

  • Always tie and bag your trash

That seems too harsh. Can I gently caress it into submission instead?

  • Not really a question but an observation: Place your trash out between 5 and 7 pm

Technically we were within the guidelines, because I distinctly remember placing the garbage out at 5 AM on Thursday, before it was picked up promptly at 7 PM on Sunday.

Finally, you guys left an area open for comments so I did have one observation I wanted to add. Have you ever noticed, when faced with a really aggressive bee, it feels like it’s singled you out for attack specifically? Like it’s a fully sentient being out for revenge, because maybe you killed its bee grandfather 20 years ago? Doesn’t that creep you out? I friggen hate bees.

 

Drinking Round the World

 

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This is what Epcot looks like when you pass out in the parking lot

Epcot is one of the few Disney establishments I like. It’s got nothing to do with what they offer. Nope, when you pay the $100 cover charge to get into Epcot, you’re mainly paying to get into a bunch of gift shops with equally overpriced crap. It’s not their rides. The one I did go on managed to combine my two most hated things; Martin Short and Canada.

It was like the “It’s a small world” ride at Disney, only far more boring and twice as annoying.

So despite the annoying merchandizing, shitty rides and foreign tourists, I still manage to like Epcot. Know why?

Drinking around the world, motherfuckers.

See Epcot has cashed in on the one thing adults like when they’re forced to go to a Disney Park. Alcohol. No joke, I will tolerate endless amounts of Jasmine and Nemo, provided I’m allowed to get loaded in the process. And in Epcot, they offer something amazing.

The ability to drink in every last country that they’ve created based on an Americanized stereotype.

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So the opportunity to both get super wasted and be offensive to foreigners in one fell swoop? Consider me in. Well played Epcot. Well played.

Anywho, we started off in Canada. As I’d been drinking heavily the night before, my brother became concerned as I developed the sweats while chugging a very heavy Moosehead Ale. But he had no idea. I was simply getting my early second wind.

See, me and my brother, we’re about as different as two people could be. He’s a republican. I’m a paranoid libertarian. He has a real job where he’s important and takes phone calls on the weekend. I would be both shocked and horrified if any one of my clients called me on the weekend. He’s a clean freak and I’m pretty sure I’ve grown a new form of bacteria in my toilet. He’s a health nut who regularly goes to the gym.

The last time I went to the gym was March of 2013. I needed to use their vitamin water machine to get something to mix with my booze.

So being the healthy, trim dude he is, it’s completely reasonable that he thought he’d be able to out drink me through 13 countries. What he didn’t get was 13 drinks isn’t really a challenge to me.

I call that Tuesday.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I treat my body like a temple. And by temple, I mean one of those wild, drunken orgy bathhouses in ancient Rome. I can’t remember the last time I actually ate solid food.   When I did, I assume it was some kind of fried meat. I don’t do vegetables. As far as I’m concerned, vegetables are nothing more than the product I use to lure my meat into a fryer.

As a result, my body adapts. My shriveled, probably green liver, isn’t even part of the process anymore. The booze goes right to my stomach, then slides its way into my bladder thanks to a heavy coating of cholesterol.

It’s important to have a system.

Anyway, we made it through all the countries in Epcot before passing out on the ground near the giant golf ball. At that point, I led him out to the parking lot to find our mom’s car.

You ever heard of the blind leading the blind? Well, this was the drunk leading the drunk. My brother passed out in a parking spot as I wandered like Mad Max leaving Thuderdome until I wound up in a Wet & Wild Parking lot about 4 miles away…where I led a small nation of people who had also lost their cars forever.

After about two hours of drunk wandering, I finally found our car…about 3 spaces from where my brother passed out in the first place.

So I did the reasonable thing. I loaded his ass into the back seat, peed behind the back tire, and called our mom to take us home.

Because drinking around the world is no joke. It’s hard. Going in there unprepared is a bit like attempting to run the Boston Marathon after one spinning class.

You can’t just jump into that shit. Your body needs practice. You need to know if you’re ready

Here’s a test to help you decide;

  1. Have you ever drunk mouthwash after you ran out of beer?
    1. Yes
    2. No
  2. Do you consume more than four drinks a week?
    1. Yes
    2. No
  3. After a heavy night of drinking, have you ever woken up and used more alcohol as any ‘eye opener”?
    1. Yes
    2. No

Ok, so those questions? Copied off of a “do you need AA” website. If you answered all yesses, I’ve got good news and bad news. Bad news first; you’re probably an alcoholic.

Good news? You can totally handle drinking around the world.

Rock on Epcot, rock on.