Please Don't Buy That Laptop

You know when your friend is about to make a poor choice in life, and you find yourself in this really awkward position of either telling them that they are about to initiate armageddon or just letting them screw up Heaven and Earth?

I make this sound like my friends work for the UN. Not even close. 

Basically it went like this:

“Jessica, I’m thinking of buying a new laptop. What do you think about this one?”

“What are you looking to do with it?”

“What do you mean ‘do’ with it? Computer stuff.”

See, I should have just backed out of the conversation right then, but curiosity got the better of me. 

“Yeah, but I mean is it just personal use, or edit on it?”

“Both.”

Both? What the shit kind of answer is that?!

“Just get a Mac. Not the Air.”

“Those are really expensive for just internet stuff.”

“What the fuck happened to all that ‘both’ mess you were just talking about?”

Here’s the thing - I DON’T CARE WHAT KIND OF LAPTOP YOU HAVE. I mean, I just don’t, so I’m perfectly content in you getting whatever you want. Just please don’t make me participate in this ridiculous charade. 

But then Friend says:

“I think I’m just going to go with the Sony...”

“NO!”

I know! I just said that I didn’t care, but no...not the Sony. Buy their cameras, TVs, hell laserdiscs, but NOT their piece of bullshit laptops. 

Do you even remember laserdiscs? Well, it was Sony’s second worst product invention ever. Right behind their laptops. As an aside - the first time I ever say Star Wars was on laserdisc. My dad always nerded out pretty swell-like back in the day.

Anyway...now she has a Sony laptop. I give it 4 months to crippling slowdown status. Check back late August to see if my friend is losing her shit because she’s about to start med school with a ‘Slowny.’

The Consent Experience

Why in the actual fuck do I have to opt-OUT of sharing information online? What happened to all that online anonymity I was told about when I was younger? 

It’s so easy to be anonymous online because no one can ever find out who you really are.

Bullshit! Everyone can find out who you really are. Children can find out who you really are. 

In my line of work, we talk a lot about the consent experience. When you are given the choice to opt-in or opt-out, how informed did you feel? How easy was the choice to understand? Did you walk away with warm fuzzies, or have to lay down until your head stopped spinning from scrolling through the privacy policy [ahem, iTunes]?

To put a really fine point on it - were you ever asked at all?

Personally, I think opt-out is the biggest bunch of horse shit since the first horse ever shat. It’s like going to your friend’s house and they get to go through your wallet, just because you walked through the door. 

Basically you’ve given permission for your information to be shared before you’ve experienced or benefited from the service. I am not a fan of consent before collection anyway. I don’t see how giving permission to share my stuff before I know what stuff that might be is, in anyway, informed consent. 

For example, say I visit StupidQuirkyKnickknacks.com, and sign up to be a member. After all, I’m hardcore quirky about knickknacks, and the stupider the better. Only just by signing up with StupidQuirkyKnickknacks.com, I was automatically signing up for “The Final Countdown” to become my permanent ringtone on every cell phone I have from now until eternity. I just didn’t know that because the opt-out option was buried somewhere in the midst of StupidQuirkyKnickknacks.com’s mile-long terms and conditions [ahem, Facebook; LinkedIn; and, Pandora]. 

See how flawed opt-out is?

As humans, we love free will. Damn, I sure do love choosing stuff. Me too, Bob. Choosing is boss.

So if I went to my grocery store, and before walking in, the employee says, “Before you shop, would you like to participate in our KKK rallies?” Then I would have the choice to say no, and find another grocery store. 

Or if I was racist, opt-in.

Not just show up to the grocery store and immediately be hemmed up in white sheets. 

Opt-in; not opt-out! Consent is not guerrilla warfare! Do not sneak attack.

Recently, an app developer out of Texas, came up with an app that scans the faces of bar patrons and posts the guy/girl ratio for users to gauge happeningness. This is bad for several reasons:

1. The bar patrons don’t get to consent. Well, there’s a sign...inside the bar...on the back wall...behind the bathrooms;
2. Giving out the guy/girl ratio is fucking useless, unless there’s some measurement of attractiveness. How helpful is it to know there are lots of ladies in the bar if when you get there, you discover they’re all tundra pigs?
3. Where does this data go? Don’t believe any who says data isn’t stored. It’s stored. It’s always stored. Pretty much the only true thing ever said to us about the internet was that once it’s online, it’s out there forever.

Consent is a wonderful and beautiful thing. Fuck whoever told you it’s arduous or complicated. It’s not. Yeah, the context of use changes things, but that’s how it’s supposed to be. One-size-fits-all makes everyone look bad. 

If you’re spending so much time on your business, your website, your product, why would you ever get lazy at the consent piece? 

Prehistoric Break Ups

Ever wonder how cavemen broke up with one another? 

Like did you come home and find your pictograph smeared off of the cave wall? Some new Neanderthal drawn in your place? Like archaic sticker family decals. 

Don’t grunt at me like that. You’ve been so lofty ever since you started walking upright. Get the fuck out of my cave. I hope you get eaten by a saber tooth tiger. 

Maybe they just came home to find the cave empty. The little cave woman took everything - your favorite sharp stick, the pelts, and of course - the fire. You can’t even whack her over the head with a club, because the bitch took that too. 

Maybe that’s why all the pottery found in archaeological digs is in pieces. It wasn’t broken over time, just smashed as part of an prehistoric domestic dispute. Proof that throughout human history, we were never able to have nice things. 

Cryptic Crisis

I'm other-oriented in the sense that I think people should be oriented to others as part of general practice but admittedly, I'm horrible at it myself. I don't pry, so you shouldn't pry. But sometimes people want you to pry because apparently that's called being a good listener and people like it.

So as other-oriented and socially aware as I like to consider myself, I often miss cues. Actually, if we're being honest, I'm self-absorbed so if you need my attention say it. I'll happily dedicate some time to hear your woes and offer advice. I like you. That's why we're friends on Facebook. I'm genuinely invested in your snippets. Just say what's on your mind.

You could just scan your friends' woes all on one page. Everyone is just saying what is on their mind. Oh, you're having a bad day? Here's a <3 thing. Bad break up? ((HUGS)). Accomplished something? Like

I'm such a good friend.

But then everyone went and got all cryptic with their status and the cues I miss in person, I also now miss online. I'm sorry, but I don't know EVERY song by The Cure, so that obscure reference you made to their 1984 B-side reflecting your bottomless pit of infinite sadness was totally lost on me. I can't tell if you need a <3 or an iTunes account.

The whole Person A "Everything is horrible" status is equally perplexing. Alright, so you were more specific than quoting Little Women but I don't know if you need a <3, some XOXOXO or maybe ((HUGS)) with lots of extra (((((()))))))) like I'm trying to pop your head off. 

Seriously dude, I'll smother the fuck out of you with ((())), just let me know.

And of course, someone asks "What's the matter?" but Person A never responds. Did you get all indignant that one or two of your closest 836 Facebook friends wants to know your business? I'm only a casual acquaintance of Person A and I already know that "everything is horrible" so you might as well follow up with the details. Is it your everything or everything in the world everything? I'd like a head's up on a 28 Days everything is horrible kind of everything.

Imagine if this had happened in Libya?

Aabida Ahmed "This is total bullshit."

• Haleema Amel "What's the matter?"
• Ra'fat Mohamed "Hope everything is ok! (((HUGS)))"
• 1 person likes this

Meanwhile, the bullshit is actually that the country is at civil war. Thanks Ra'fat  but I'm pretty sure all the (((()))) in the world won't help. Aabida should've updated her status to clarify. Otherwise we can't tell if your boyfriend broke up with you or your in the midst of a revolutionist uprising from your oppressive dictator (arguably the same thing). And if you're not going to be specific, you'll never make it as an iReporter on CNN.

Tattoo Advice

Turns out, blue tattoo ink is the smeariest, stainiest of all the tattoo inks. So stainy in fact, that I made up “stainy” just to describe it, and “stainiest” to max it out. 

I’m leaving blue smears everywhere I go, like a roving toilet bowl monster. I didn’t realize how messy blue was until after I slept on my white sheets. Smurf blood-letting ritual? Nah, just racking out for some solid z’s.

Because the tattoo is so new, the blue is extra smeary, which I’ll admit - isn’t very attractive. Because I have to smear lotion all over it every hour or so, the extra smeary blue becomes smearier and smearier. The snozzberries also taste like snozzberries. 

Sometimes you just gotta tangent into some nonsensical alliteration. 

Anyway, so then this happened:

“Hey Jessica, my son really wants to get a tattoo. Do you think you could show him yours? Because yours looks like shit, and maybe that’ll scare him out of wanting one. Whatcha think?”

Hmm...well, first - fuck you. And then, no. 

So I’ve decided to help all you parents out there, who are just too lost to parent without outsourcing:

If you hate tattoos, and would not be able to rise above you kid getting one, because your love is selfishly conditional on trivial shit, tell your kid that you don’t want him to get one. You can also tell them that if they get one anyway, it’ll be a royal pain in the ass to try to hide if from you for the rest of your lives. If we’re being really honest, that fact alone would have prevented me from one tattoo.

If you’re neutral about tattoos, give your kid the 10 year rule - only get a tattoo of something you have liked for at least 10 years. Now, I don’t mean you have a design all picked out, and then sit on it for 10 years. A 10-year cycle is a decent amount of time to make sure the concept doesn’t fall out of favor. 

For example, say it’s 1933, and the Nazis are the coolest thing in patriotism, and ihr pipi kind just begging to get a swastika. Well in 1933, the Nazis seemed kinda harmless right? But when we apply the 10 year rule what happens? That’s right - it’s 1943 and ain’t the Nazis some bullshit! 

And if you’re still digging the Nazi lifestyle in 1943, then you’re a hardcore racist and should definitely get a swastika tattoo. Preferably on your face. 

But Jessica, the Nazis are kind of an extreme example. Fair point, reader. Let’s try this one:

I loved the shit out of cherry flavored Tylenol when I was a kid, and I definitely would have told you that I wanted a Tylenol bottle tattoo. Except in 1982, someone nutball poisoned bottle of Tylenol. 

Good thing I didn’t get that tattoo in 1981! If I had, everyone would’ve thought I was the Tylenol poisoner. Nevermind that I was only 13 months old. If you can walk, you can poison. 

So, if your beloved thing has been blemish free for the last 10 years, you’re probably safe. If it was going to falter again, it probably would have done so before the 10 years was up (Michael Jackson and OJ Simpson my emperical evidence to this point). 

The blue on my tattoo will eventually stop smearing, but that Ed Hardy logo you had done will always cover you in shame.

Project NOPE

Turns out, my project partner in my Advanced Social Media Communications class is a total whacko! Which would be great if he wasn’t my partner. In a project. For a class. At a school. That I pay out the ass to attend.

We have to write a pitch letter proposing a communications campaign for a company’s initiative. Partner guy says he’s got a great idea for what company - Harley-Davidson. I agree, because I don’t yet know he’s crazy. 

So at first, Partner guy is extra awesome because he picked the company and offered to write our opening paragraph. It has to be something special, to grab the reader’s attention, and make them want to read more. 

So this motherfucker writes...

"Bitches hate riding bitch. You know this. And it’s about time we give them what they want. Because when the bitches ain’t happy; ain’t no body happy." 

Yep - bitches hate riding bitch. That’s his special, attention-grabbing open to a pitch letter trying to sway Harley-Davidson to sponsor a women’s health campaign with the Susan G. Komen Foundation (aka ‘Bitches for a Cure - Holla Suzie G’).

I could almost appreciate its delightful awkwardness, except I’ll be graded on this too. I don’t even know where to start with this guy. There’s so much nope going on. So, so much of the nope!

I busted my ass, held a 4.0 for 4 years, took the LSAT, and the GRE, all to get into a top tier grad school and this is the asshole I get partnered with right out of the gate?!

Dayuum irony, you ironic. 

Broke Out in Stupid

Every so often I find myself irrationally afraid that I might be stupid. Not like a little stupid either, but really, really stupid. Like I somehow now possess all the stupid, and have become its patron saint. 

I have all these deadlines coming up, and I need to make with the witty ASAP, but I’m being hindered by my own stupidity. I can’t get the words out because I’m 1) now too stupid to think of the words, and 2) frustrated by how stupid I’ve become. 

I’m also a little mad that I didn’t see this stupid coming. As dumb as I’m feeling right now, this stupid must be the size of a barge. 

Think about how stupid the crew of the Titanic felt when they hit that iceberg...Why didn’t we see that?? Cause you’re fucking stupid. 

At least I’m not yet too stupid to use widely out of scale metaphors. 

I can’t even whine about it to anyone because no one believes I’m stupid. If I say, “I’m stupid,” they say, “You are not stupid.” So basically, I’m stupid and have nothing but horrible liar friends. 

I mean, OF COURSE, you’re not going to tell me I’m stupid. What kind of horrible human being says that to someone!

But I’m not looking for a pep talk. I’m talking about becoming stupid by losing my smart. Like how most people lose their wallets. If I were to say, “I lost my wallet,” would my friends insist I had not?

That’s not even a good analogy of what I mean. Let’s try another one...

Think of stupid like poison ivy. So I’m covered in stupid, but my friends keep insisting I’m not. 

Seriously dude, look. It’s everywhere.

Txt ur Mthr

Damn the person who taught my mother to text message. Not that I don't want her to text message, per se, but maybe she could avoid text messaging me. 


Part of the problem is she uses nonsensical shorthand. Somehow she's outmaneuvering iPhone's autocorrect too. These, coupled with the complete lack of nouns, make her messages impossible to decipher. Seriously, if the Germans had my mom on their side, that war may have come out much differently. 


Because I have to study the cryptic gibberish in the text, I don't read them as soon as I get one. Because I don't read it and respond immediately, my mom takes the in between time to work up into a complete tizzy and assume I'm dead. I'm feared dead at least twice a week.


Instead of just calling me, my mom decides she doesn't want to interrupt, and sends me an email. Basically it's the long-form version of the previous text, which I can use as a codex. 


I have to be careful to remember to answer the email though, lest my silence be interpreted as confirmation of being dead. Even in this newly confirmed presumption of death, my mom doesn't want to be a bother, resulting in this:

TO: JESSICA

FROM: MOM

RE: ANSWER ME YOUNG LADY

I sent you a text on Monday. I emailed on Wednesday about the text. It's now Thursday morning and I haven't heard from you. Getting worried. Love - Mom

Guess what happens when you don't answer that?

TO: JESSICA

FROM: MOM

FW:RE: ANSWER ME YOUNG LADY

I sent you a text on Monday. I emailed on Wednesday about the text. It's now Thursday morning and I haven't heard from you. Got worried. Sending Anne's son (Phillip) over to your place to make sure you're ok. Love - Mom

Meanwhile, I'm not dead. Just innocently left my phone at my friend's house after an epic birthday weekend, and am still too hungover to check my email because using the internet makes my head feel all spinny. So while I'm nursing myself back to normal with Smart Water, Cheetos and a Real Housewives marathon, my mom has sent Good Guy Phillip over to my place to peek in my windows for signs of life. 

I don't know if this has ever happened to you, but to be startled out of a lovely couch nap by the frantic banging of a stranger on your patio door is scary. Motherfucking terrifying even. I don't know Phillip. I don't even think I know Anne. As far as I'm concerned he's a murdering rapist and I don't have a phone with which to call 911.

Seriously, what was my mom thinking? What if I had shot Phillip or something?


Worse than almost maiming or incarcerating Phillip is that my mom insists the entire thing was my fault. 

Not Helpful Feature

My blog used to automatically import from Blogger to Facebook. Recently, I had to change some things around, and needed to temporarily disconnect that feed. 


But when I went to reconnect, I found that I couldn't. Why Facebook, why?

So let me get this straight...there was this reasonably convenient, streamlined feature, but Facebook decided to get rid of it? And their reason was because they feel "the best way to get people to interact with your content is to give them blah, blah, blah by adding personal comments and responding to feedback from fans."


First of all - don't tell me what to fucking do, Facebook. I'll interact however I damn well please. Secondly, all that interactive content and personal feedback is done on my BLOG. 


I'm not going to copy and paste my blog into your Notes. Writing notes is for children. And if people are all clickity-clicking on a Facebook Notes page, then they aren't clickity-clicking on the ads that I might one day put on my blog because I had to sell out for food. 


Facebook is the internet version of Lenny from Mice & Men, only with a Napoleon complex. You can't just replace all of the internet's technology with some Facebook version. I don't want your @facebook email, just like I didn't want that other imperialistic bullshit you "created." 


The only Facebook has innovated in the last 5 years is how to make money off of being stagnant. Leave the rabbits alone and quit trying to dominate the world.


Neither Lenny or Napoleon had happy endings, and I'm hoping the same for Facebook.