What Kind of Asshole Are You?

Did you know that there are different kinds of assholes in the world? Well, I’m here to tell you that there are.

Professional Assholes

I consider myself to be a professional asshole. This means that I’m your friend, I’m loyal and kind until you start behaving in a way that is counterproductive to your life. At that moment, I bring out my professional asshole skills and give you some tough love. You need to get your shit together and I’ll be by your side to help you do that. This is part of my job as a professional asshole; to support you but give you my honest opinion on how you are fucking things up.

We all fuck up our lives and make mistakes

Show me a person who doesn’t make mistakes and I will show you that Falcor from the Neverending Story is my pet in real life. You can’t hold up your end of the bargain, and I don’t own a luck dragon. Everyone makes mistakes, we’re not infallible and we need to own that. That’s what a professional asshole is for. A professional asshole helps you to recognize your life blunders and repair them.

Certfied Fucking Assholes

There’s another type of asshole that exists that isn’t a kind hearted one. This person is entitled a “certified fucking asshole.” You’ve seen him cutting your car off on the highway, backstabbing you at work, making you feel crazy for having feelings of any kind and being a “life ruiner” in a variety of capacities. From my empirical experience, there are statistically more certified fucking assholes in the world than there are professional assholes. It’s upsetting that the balance is set up this way, but it makes you appreciate the professional assholes when you find them.

Professional Assholes are Good People, While Certified Fucking Assholes Are Terrible People

I’m certain that people will take issue with this distinction, however, I’m going to assert that there are good and bad people in the world. Someone who commits murder is (in my opinion) a bad person. A professional assholes is a good human. He/she is out to help others through showing setting boundaries, telling the truth and being a loyal friend. Meanwhile, a certified fucking asshole is likely narcissistic, self-serving, and looking to sabotage you. There are varying degrees of evil, but as a rule, it’s wise to avoid certified fucking assholes at all costs.

What Kind of Asshole are YOU?

It’s time to ask yourself the hard question. What kind of asshole are you? Are you looking to ruin people’s lives or are you attempting to better them? It is my hope that we can all be professional assholes. Be real, be yourself and do not be afraid to show your friend some good old fashioned tough love. She probably needs it right now if she’s going through a divorce.


Unstable Homeless Man Attacks Innocent People at @McDonalds

Dear McDonalds,

I took my kids to the McDonalds location on Flatbush Avenue at The Atlantic Mall today. I never go to your restaurant, because my kids normally don’t eat fast food. However, we had a snow day today, and I wanted to give them a treat. Jashana, the shift manager, was very kind and took our order. It was around 11 am  when we entered your establishment. We sat down to eat in a booth. All of a sudden a homeless man (he identified himself as “a bum”) entered the restaurant.

“I’m a bum. I’m a fucking bum right?!” He screamed at the customers.

It was truly unsettling. My kids and I tried to ignore him as we ate our food. Despite our efforts to enjoy our food, the man persisted in harassing Jashana and the other customers. He screamed at this innocent woman behind the counter saying “when you go home, you suck your man’s dick! I know you do.”

Now, my children are six and eight years of age. They don’t know what a blow job is, but after we exited the restaurant my eight-year-old asked me what “sucking a dick” meant. I didn’t anticipate having that conversation with my child, and I shouldn’t have to. McDonald’s is supposed to be a family-friendly restaurant.

The man began to get louder and louder and no one did anything to stop him. I said loudly:

“I think someone needs to call the cops. Don’t you think?” I was afraid for my family’s safety. The McDonald’s employees said that they have tried to get the police involved, but it takes too long for them to come and respond to the scene, so they just gave up on calling them when these types of incidents happen.

I’m disturbed that the employees were being harassed by this man, but here’s the even more upsetting part: it isn’t the first time it’s happened. This man has been coming into this location every morning, Jashana tells me. He has been being verbally abusive to the employees and the customers. This is wrong, and you need to take action.

What can we do about the safety of the employees at store #27008? Can we help them in some way? Please investigate this matter and contact the owner: Dave Hatton. I don’t want the employees to be hurt by this man, who is clearly a predator.

Thank you,

Sarah Fader – Single Mom


The door is open for you to be yourself

I opened the door for you. I’m holding it ajar with my body, and ushering you inside with my right hand; it’s an invitation for you to be yourself. You don’t have to pretend to be someone else, because who you are is beautiful. I won’t ask you to change for me. I like you the way you are. That’s why you are my friend. And I appreciate how similar we are and also how vastly different. We come from disparate universes, but I still love you, because you are you. I can see the light shining inside your eyes. They are small pebbles but they sparkle in the dark night. I want to look into them again and smile when I do it. I’m here to tell you that you matter. I’m standing in front of you telling you the honest truth, that you are incredible and you can. You can do that thing you’re afraid of doing, but you want to do so badly. I believe in you as much as I believe in me. I see myself in you, and I also see how we make each other’s lives better. There are so many things I want to tell you and I can’t talk fast enough or long enough to let them out. You inspire me in a way that I haven’t felt in so long, and that means everything to me. I can hardly speak through these tears because I’m grateful for the ability to feel again. For a while I lost that muse, that voice, that me, but you reminded me what I am, who I am and for that I can only say thank you. Come inside and sit down beside this fire with me, and tell me about your dreams. Let’s make them come true.


I don’t feel creative

I don’t feel creative and yet here I am writing this. It’s because I want so much to feel creative. I want to feel that spark, the adrenaline, the drive, the want to create and feel something and yet I feel like a broken pencil tip, a dull razor blade, because I don’t feel anything at all.

I’m banging on the door to my heart and it isn’t answering. Maybe no one’s home right now, it’s all I can figure. My emotions went on vacation and they didn’t leave anyone to house sit inside the confines of my body. So I’m a blank slate, a walking outline of a person who once felt deeply. I will feel again when I’m not floating above these feelings. Although, it feels nice to fly away from them sometimes. Other times they are surrounding me and I don’t know what to do with them.

Not today, today I don’t feel. Today I’m an empty cup and other boring metaphors. Still I write because my fingers remind me to, and my passion, which is buried under all this gray ambiguous nothing, is peaking out through the curtains wanting to be seen.




I have too many questions and no answers; that’s what life is about. I remember sitting in elementary school in the fifth grade, quietly raising my hand hoping that I would get called on, because I knew I had the right answer. It was devasting when Mrs. Gumbs called on someone else, because I knew my answer was correct. Time passed by, but my passion to speak the right answer never disappeared. I sat in 8th grade English class with my hand held high waiting to express my favorite beat poet’s name:Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I can feel the stiffness in my arm from waiting, and I’m not longer 13, I’m 37.

My worth isn’t predicated on whether I know the right answer, but I believed it was at the time.

When my hand stopped flying up in high school, it was hard. When my confidence dropped, it was difficult. I wasn’t mastering pre-calculus and I couldn’t raise my hand anymore with confidence. I had more questions than answers and my feet were what I was looking at more than the teacher’s gaze.

In college my heart pounded when I raised my hand, even if I was certain my answer was correct. I was nervous and sought the validation of the other students around me, but more importantly I wanted to impress the professor at the head of the lecture hall.

Now that I’m 37, the opportunities to raise my hand are few and far between. I want to give my feedback, to be correct, to know something, but there isn’t anyone’s gaze to meet, or professional to impress.

In order to answer those questions, I have to find people out in the world to help me. But there are so many people out there. How do I know who to trust? The answer is inside myself like it’s always been. That’s why I’ve been raising my hand all these years.

questions or decision making concept

questions or decision making concept

When Thoughts Fly

loveMy thoughts fly.




Sometimes they crawl into the crevices of my heart, those words, feelings, truths and I want to hide from the rush of adrenaline.

If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.

Logic is something that we use when it’s convenient. Emotions have capes that allow them to fly wherever they please.

One day I’ll stand before you and open that door so you can see inside me. That door opens so infrequently. It’s usually under construction.

People knock but I pretend like I’m not home. For you I’ll open the door.

Only you.

Free floating

Free floating, heart racing

Trying to make it through this one minute

Knowing there will be many more minutes, seconds, hours, days and years

or something along those lines and I’m hungry but for the wrong emotions

I can’t be right today or is it today?

I’m not sure if it’s today or tomorrow or Friday or Tuesday.

It’s Monday, and I know it. I’m just fucking with you…whoever you are.

I wrote a lot of words and I’m not sure if they are good because

I’m waiting for unanswered emails

and I have a profound fear of rejection that I

keep pushing through knowing that

not everyone likes me and

in fact the few people that do, I can count on one hand on a given day

because I annoy the shit out of myself so

how can anyone actually like me?

But they do…like me.

Anxiety causes my thoughts to race, my chest to expand, my heart to question what I know to be true and

I’m glad that you’re reading this, because

it means that these emotions are being validated by

your eyes.





I don’t like to weigh myself because numbers are depressing. When I was in high school I ranged from weighing 110 lbs to 120 lbs. I was super skinny. People used to ask me if I ate. And I did eat, I was just anxious all the time and eating was a challenge. I never had an eating disorder but I did vomit bile in the mornings during my senior year at F.H. LaGuardia High School before I went off to school. Well, actually that’s not how the routine went exactly. I’d wake up, feel like my heart was going to explode out of my chest, and I was scared to open my eyes. But I made myself do it. I was immediately nauseated by the influx of (what I didn’t know then was) cortisol and stress hormones. I threw up bile until my stomach settled. Then I ate oatmeal, which my mom made me and I did mindfulness meditation guided by Jon Kabat-Zinn where he told me how to be a mountain. With Jon’s guidance I was able to face the day. In college I gained 15 lbs, except not in Freshman year, it was in Sophmore year, when my Katrina’s mother would send us brownies frosted with chocolate frosting.

This was supposed to be about pants.

Anyway, after college I eventually had children, and the weight never went away. I’ve become attached to elastic pants. I have these fancy yoga/dress pants and I wear them every day, because they are more comfortable on my belly. I’ve never had a belly in my entire life. And now, I can’t get rid of it. I want my pants to be smaller. I have started doing Tae Kwon Do and I walk five miles a day. I hope that I can buy pants that don’t showcase my belly. But I blame anxiety and depression for fucking up my metabolism.



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