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The 10 Road Rage Commandments…

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 13, 2015 by Jay Isip


Driving behind the wheel is stressful, especially in New Jersey. I understand that road rage is a subtlety in our country, let alone our state. People behind the wheel can’t bear to stand others on the road; especially if they can’t drive–or more likely can’t drive in favor for them. Most people behind the wheel, act is if, they are the only people who have somewhere to go, in a rush to get somewhere, or they’re Paul Walker (R.I.P) driving a 1995 Mitsubishi Eclipse—relax!

I’m sorry if everyone is not swift with the steering wheel as you think you are.

Your road rage is actually a symbolization of how you deal with life; if you can’t keep your composure while you drive–then you can’t keep your composure when things are not going your way. When your emotions rise into anger just because of some little driving incident that didn’t go as you wish, is a sign that you can’t handle real life situations. When life hits at you hard, you cry, scream, and complain about others and blame them for their so-called, bad driving.

Basically, you’re a little spoiled, 4 year-old brat, that stomps their feet when the parent doesn’t buy them a toy. Yeah, that’s you. You’re a little brat bastard.

…or, maybe I’m bitter because I suck at driving, but at least I have an excuse–I’m Asian, and it’s in my blood! My driving track record isn’t the cleanest either. The following is a SMALL list in car incidentals…

  1. DUI
  2. DWI
  3. Four totaled cars
  4. Seven accidents (on record)
  5. but NO driving violations–ever.

I am the person that all you road raging addicts get Fast & Furious with. It’s not nice to get mad at others because of their handicap driving skills; well I’m not an angel either–I’m guilty for making others get mad because I sometimes purposely drive like shit, so the other driver flips-out; it makes me laugh. I understand that my driving kind of sucks, so I use it to my advantage to selfishly make myself giggle at others road rage.

So, I’m not really upset about people with road rage, because I know they are only truly hurting themselves by being such a bitch.

Road rage is not what really bothers me on the road; I actually thoroughly enjoy watching someone get pissed off, as I shine my first-grade smile at them to create more rage behind their wheel…

What really grinds my transmission, is when people act nice behind the wheel but and then, act like a jerk-off after they had just offered courtesy. The drivers, who TRY to be courteous, are the drivers that piss me off. It’s like; why are you going to ACT courteous, if you’re really a jerk-off? If you are a jerk-off behind the wheel, then that is completely fine with me. Cut me off and flip me the bird for all I care; I’m still going to continue to drive along with my day. But, don’t act one way, and then change your mind because your courtesy has not been appreciated soon enough for you.

My Turning Point

I was driving along with my brother Pete Isip, and current girlfriend Alyssa (this was actually about a week ago) and we were driving past the 7-Eleven on the corner on Hancox and Passaic Ave. located in Nutley NJ. I understand that I am not the best of drivers so I am extremely cautious when I am behind the wheel; especially for the safety of my passengers. Now, I’m dead stop at the corner trying to execute a proper left turn onto Passiac Ave; but of course, there are obstacles. Passing by to my left are cars, on cars, on cars so, it’s almost impossible to even sneak up past the one lane. In the further lane, there was a man inside of a black Dodge Ram and he looked like Patrick Swayze with a mushroom haircut. He seemed like a super cool dude, and at first he was; he gave me the hand signal to go first before he makes his left turn into the 7-Eleven parking lot—what a nice guy! The cars keep zooming by to my left without anyone letting me turn. I’m patient enough to wait my turn, but it started to seem that Patrick, was beginning to get furious as he frays his hand in the air, and lightly smacks his forehead.

“Would you go already!” generic Patrick Sawyze screamed.

I said back, “How am I supposed to turn? There are 100 cars zooming past me.”

“Jesus Christ! Just go!” Patrick yelled back.

It’s apparent to me this guy must be blind because he can’t see the cars driving past me, the family of baby ducks in the crosswalk with their mother, and the Wall of China, that is obviously obscuring my righter way. I guess Generic Patrick Swayze could only see a “GHOST” and not physical objects or people.

I yelled back, “How the hell do you expect me to go?”

“You’re a fucking asshole!” said Patrick.

Now, we are slowly forming an accumulation of insults that will hopefully burst into a fireball of fury. I’m not really mad, but I keep adding fuel to the fire by yelling back because I knew this would become great dialogue for this post.

“Go fuck yourself you prick!” I semi-sarcastically yell.

“What you say? Are you crazy?” Patrick Swayze angrily asked.

“I’ll kick your ass!” I yelled back.

Little did he know I always carry a Proton Pack under my driver’s seat, so he would have been toast if he made a move—I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!


“WHAT!” Patrick yelled again.

He finally decided to make a screeching left turn into the 7-Eleven parking lot; parked his car and hopped out—fuming. All of a sudden, his hair is slicked back, sleeves a cut-off, and had a lit cigarette hanging from his shit talker; and now had transformed into Patrick Swayze from Road House. It’s now obvious this Patrick was a not only a ghost—but a demon that wanted to start Dirty Dancing.

I said again, “Seriously. How did you expect me to turn! Don’t let me go, if you have no patients. Asshole!”

“FUCK YOU!” Patrick screamed.

He stands there in a casual fighting stance like Clint Eastwood with both arms to the side and definitely ready for war—a war I wasn’t going to engage, only because this was all too funny.

I continue to scream and shoot hard looks but only out of enjoyment—not out of anger. I drove away slowly and finally got to make my left turn.

Like I said, if it wasn’t for Patrick Swayze look-a-like; I wouldn’t have a story to write—kudos for the mini argument to get my point across for this article.

My point again, don’t offer someone courtesy, if you quick on pulling back your offer. If you are going to be courteous, then stay courteous. If you’re going to be an asshole, then stay an asshole—I respect both.

10 Road Rage Commandments–well, my road rage commandments…

  1. Don’t give me the hand signal to go first, and then get upset if I don’t proceed fast enough.
  2. If I give you the hand signal to go first, then go first; don’t wave the signal back at me because I’m just going to wave it right back at you, and vice-versa–now, the courtesy war had just gone to a whole new level.
  3. Don’t honk at me at a “No Turn on Red” stop light, while I’m in the right turn only lane. Seriously, have some patients and more importantly—it’s the law!
  4. When a light just turns green, there should be a three-second window before honking to move; anything before that, I will make you wait longer on purpose.
  5. When honking at me, you get 2 honks—anything more than that you shall be penalized. Oh, and don’t lean on the horn because now we’re fist fighting.
  6. When picking someone up, you have unlimited honks–it’s not rude to honk like crazy when you’re picking up someone at their house–honk away!
  7. Don’t ever expect courtesy from other drivers, and when you don’t receive your “proper” courtesy—you don’t have the privilege to get upset.
  8. Don’t drive up my ass, why do you have to drive so close to my car, just because you want to go faster? Drive around jerk-off! Next time I’m braking short so we get into an accident—don’t matter to me, it wouldn’t be my first rodeo!
  9. While at a stop light, don’t pull up to my right just to get a head start in front—if you ask then I will let you go, no problem. I have a problem about the tick foolery of pretending to make a right turn, and then you peel out like a drag racer just to get in front of me. I hope you get a ticket–eventually.
  10. Four way stop sign—I’m going first, always.

Obey the “10 Road Rage Commandments” and your life, both inside and outside of the vehicle, will be much easier. Driving is a very emotional procedure, it controls our moods that we will carry throughout the day—yet we have no control of others on the road. But, maybe that’s why we get distorted emotions in the first place; because we have no control. Have control of your time behind the wheel, and let everything else on the road—drive its course….

The Wrestler’s Charisma, Inspired by Dan O’Cone…

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2015 by Jay Isip

If you didn’t know, I train mixed martial arts religiously at Pellegrino MMA located in Belmar NJ. Our fight team practices about 5-6 days week solid, and some days with double sessions–it’s exhausting. We go over the fighting arts of; Ju-Jitsu, Kick-Boxing, Boxing, Wrestling, and Judo. Everyday we go over something different and punch each other in the face on a consistent basis–and it’s fun, at least to us. This is my tribe.

IMG_20150425_122808We all, as people, athletes, business men (women) etc. do something we thoroughly enjoy, and love to work towards a goal, to reach a certain accomplishment. Whether we fail or succeed, we wipe the blood off our faces and get back in there to chase the next goal. Wash, rinse, and repeat–this is our clockwork, our nine-to-five, our daily grind to chip away at the rock. We are called goal chasers, and for as long as we live we will continue the chase–not because we want-to, but because we have to. Somewhere down the line it has become embedded into our DNA to continually chase new goals, reach higher limits, accomplish new things because it has been programmed to make us happy. It’s a non-stop roller coaster.

Now, there are others who are equally as happy by living in content, they are not goal chasers and would rather live their lives on a steady pace–which is fine because that’s how they are programmed.

Then, there are people who just do absolutely nothing, and would rather complain about life and live in the “Woe is me” attitude–which is fine also, because that’s how they are programmed and makes them feel happy to complain.

Either way, we are all programmed a certain way and some differently than others. Which makes us all individually a part of a certain tribe. Each tribe carries different qualities, elements, and attributes, which makes them no better than the other–it’s just different. We are part of certain tribes because it makes us feel a part of something, or we connect with certain characteristics that had been buried into our brains from past experiences. Our past experiences is what makes us differently the same. Which is why, most of the time we do not understand, neglect, or frown upon other tribes way of living because we have never lived in such manners. We all had different experiences with certain similarities and opposing agendas.

…as for my experience, it was high school colligate wrestling…

There’s something in a wrestler, that makes them a wrestler…

Me: “You know in fighting you never compete at 100%. All the weight cutting, injuries, it’s the fight business–that’s what happens.”

Dan O’Cone: “Yeah. If you fight at 100%, then you probably didn’t train hard. And if you are physically 100% you still had to cut weight, so technically you’re never 100%”

Me: “You’re 100% right…”

Dan O’Cone: “You know, there is just something inside a wrestler, that you can’t teach. Wrestler’s are programmed to not quit if we want something. We can’t quit because, we HAVE to make weight and after you make weight, you HAVE to wrestle, and after you win, lose, or get what we wanted–we HAVE to make weight again. Imagine, a teenager, 15-16 years old going through all this; not eating or drinking, going through wrestling practice in heavy clothes, and leaving practice to go home and put heavier clothes on to work out again because we HAVE to make weight in order to compete. Two days a week, for three months–and some all year round. Your average person, works hard in the gym, goes home eats a nice meal and rests on the couch. Not wrestlers. After the back-and-forth scramble, wrestlers always go back in the center of the mat, in their stance, and ready to keep moving again. So going through that experience makes a wrestler–a WRESTLER.”

This man was right, and being a wrestler helps develop a person into a man that doesn’t understand how to quit. Wrestling helped create my physical and mental qualities that formulated a whole new DNA, which I never even knew existed. With all the elements that pertained during high school wrestling, it taught me more about life than any classroom could have. It taught me self-discipline, helped me get in touch with my emotions, created a mind set of instinctual progression and to keep moving on, whether things go our way or not.

Have-to vs. Want-to…

As Dan mentioned, wrestlers HAVE to make weight in order to wrestle, especially if we want to achieve what we want…

Understanding that our have-to’s is the road we have-to take in order to reach our want-to’s in life We all want-to be champions, be wealthy, be famous, be in great shape, be in love and understand that their is a long road to take in order to reach certain wants. But most of us had never been through the “I have to’s.”– wrestlers have. If we continually live doing things we want-to do, then we will never truly get what we want. By doing things we always want to do, will give us options–and one of those options is quitting. On the other hand, when we have to do something then there are no options, we can’t quit because it has to get done–it gives us personal accountability.

If we do what we HAVE to do and quit, then we lose–but we always have another chance when we HAVE to do a certain thing…

If we do what we WANT to do and quit, nothing happens–you’re just a quitter, and nothing will EVER happen…

The ten-foot circle of life…

During a wrestling match you have a ten-foot diameter of space where the wrestling match takes place. The objective is to put someone flat on their back to achieve a pin or score more points than your opponent, and you will get your hand raised with a win. In between the objective, both contenders are fighting to score points to get closer to victory. During the scramble, there are times where you will score points, get scored on, or out of bounds–and we always start back in the center until the match is over. In a wrestlers’ world, everything happens inside of that ten-foot diameter, anything outside will have to be drawn back into the center of the mat. I have come to realize that these boundaries, rules, and regulations had sub-consciously created a life template for myself.

wrestlingThink of the ten-foot circle as the world you live in, and the small center circle is where you; can be born, can die, or stay stagnant. Inside of the ten-foot circle, is where life comes after us as you battle against your foe’s, fears, and becomes uncomfortable. As a wrestler, you do everything in your will to break this conformity, as we do in life. And no matter what, after the huge scramble, most of the time we get out of bounds. Whether we score points, get scored on, or back to neutral; we have to head back into the center of the mat and keep our composure–as in life, when things are in motion they tend to fray into distortion, and we learned how to center our selves back into our original ambition. In the center of the mat, is where life gets real. We start in the center, we win and lose in the center, and we end in the center–but no matter what we are always centered—and that’s what life is about, always finding your center.

We find our center, and do the best we possibly can–over and over again. We are never 100% ready to do something, but we are always ready to give 100%

But after wrestling, what’s next?

The choice is yours, you could either leave your shoes in the center of the mat, or carry your wrestling shoes everywhere you go….

A Short Story by Jay Isip, “THE TARGET TEST: The First Date Consultation”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on June 30, 2015 by Jay Isip

Welcome to Target!


Target—the place where anyone and everyone can fulfill a basic necessity, get something they want for a reasonable price, and have fun while smart-shopping for their everyday likings. It arrays a smorgasbord of emotional connections between clothing items, scents, foods, entertainment, and even toys. But even better, the simple shopping day at Target will tell you much about someone’s characteristics.

The Target I religiously shop at is located in Clifton Commons of New Jersey. When I browse Target with another person, I can gain perspective on many things. I sometimes analyze people during our shopping spree and discover many distinctive underlying messages that an individual carries. In my perspective, Target is the best place to understand a person’s views, likes and dislikes, values, sense of humor, favorite colors, and clothing size. With this I-spy consultation, we can develop a great sense of a person’s foundation if we pay close attention to his or her natural reactions toward everyday life moments.

What better place than Target to do that?

We can learn a lot about a person with one easy one-hour trip to Target! Yes, I may look a little too deeply into the situation—or I may just be a nosy, judgmental asshole, which is most likely the case, but I do believe in my Target test.

If I want to get to know someone, that is what I do—take them to Target—plain and simple. Here’s an example of one of the many occasions I have taken a girl to Target as one of our “dates.”—My unsuspecting victims have no idea that I am taking them to Target for my own personal agenda. They believe it’s just a casual hangout, and it normally is—which makes it the safest, easiest, lowest pressure, and most casual-going date there is.

I’m a sneaky bastard, ain’t I?

The entire project is premeditated, for this ain’t my first walk in Target!

Let’s proceed, shall we….


Test 1 – Parking Lot Pressure: I had her pick me up (because I’m a boss) because I wanted her to drive, and so I could see how she deals with life behind the wheel. So, we entered the anxious parking lot of road-raging motor vehicleists, where everyone drives around the track like Dale Earnhardt Jr., furiously searching for parking spot closest to the entrance. People were honking at each other, followed by name-belching vulgarity, which usually ended up with a “yo-mama” insult to help clarify that they had zero respect for one another. She seemed okay with the overflowing nonsense of screaming cars trying to top each other for the closest parking spot besides the handicapped spot. All of a sudden, BEEEP. BEEEEP! Move out the way! the driver behind her had honked their horn like a hungry elephant. She began to flip-off her trucker mouth-of-the-south and gave the opposing driver obscene hand gestures that may indicate words that rhyme with “Two Smother Truckers.” I got a bit uncomfortable, only because I knew if the man driving wanted to presume the issue—then I would have had to fight him.

Conclusion: She is short-tempered and wouldn’t be able to handle real-life pressure if something got out of hand. But on the flip side, it also showed me that she stands up for herself, which also indicates a bit of feistiness. But when push comes to shove, and her back’s against the wall, can she find a way to move forward without getting emotional—or pissed off? I think not, but props for being bold…


Test 2 – Humorously Distracted: We finally parked, got out, and walked through the lot toward the entrance. We passed the gigantic red spheres of doom, and I hoped that they wouldn’t clank together and compress my body like a booby trap. Before I entered the automatic swinging doors, I pretended to push them open without touching the actual door, like Magneto. They swung open because of my super-human abilities (obviously not), and I glanced over to her face to see if I got a giggle—and she giggled. I stopped in my tracks and let her go first, so she could cool off under the overpowering central air system to offset the steam that was previously building up inside her from the parking lot experience. (Kudos for laughing at my child-like Marvel comic book act, though.) The air duct pushed vertical winds that had her hair flowing in the air like Marilyn Monroe as the sixty-five degree oxygen soaked into her blood cells, providing her with the much-needed breath of fresh air to recoup—for the second round of my observation.

We then proceeded to the shopping cart selection, so I let her choose:

A: push-cart

B: hand basket

She grabbed the large (A) push cart—which meant she was comfortable enough with me to spend some time and do some personal shopping. But for me, it was time for me to paint a judgmental picture of facts-n-flaws on my brain canvas. She started lugging the push-cart so one of the wheels was off track and made a continuous annoying thud that sounded like the Fisher-Price popper push toy. She didn’t seem to be as annoyed as I was. So I grabbed the manual vehicle away from her hands and took control—she was okay with it. She then jumped on the front of the push-cart and said “Push me!” So we rolled down to the toy isle and pushed the cart fast and faster. She laughed in full excitement as I started jerking the cart around like bumper cars—I was enjoying myself as well. Our Titanic scene started to die down, so we moved on to the next.

Conclusion: When she cooled down from the previous parking lot incident, her sense of humor seemed to have sprouted from the cool soils of her ground. She understood my X-Men movie reference, which showed me a connection of personal style in the entertainment category. When the annoying lugging wheel sound didn’t faze her, it seems that she doesn’t get easily annoyed—or distracted. Her free-spirited soul flying through the winds of shopping cart velocity, was soothing, yet awakening to the child that hides inside of me.

So far so good…


Test 3 – Indecisively (Un)Healthy: We made our way into the produce and grocery section and strolled through the produce section where it puts off a bit of a cold breeze to keep the crops fresh. She instantly complained, “I’m cold.” I looked at her with zero response like a confused foreign exchange student sitting in English class. The “Are you kidding me?” ran through my head like a hamster on a wheel, as I couldn’t believe she was serious. She touched almost every piece of produce and was unsure which top-shelf part of the food pyramid she was willing to snack on. “AACHOO,” she sneezed like Minnie Mouse onto her left hand but then nonchalantly wiped the debris on her boot cut jeans.

With her right hand, she then grabbed a six-pack of bananas, a bag of spinach, and some fresh melon medley. She then sniffed the produce items with her snot-filled nose that made a slurping inhale noise—I was disgusted.

At that point, my mind was playing tug-of-war after being the witness of her being a human sneezeguard to save her personal produce from the germs that shot out of her nostrils.

Conclusion: From the looks of her, she is definitely physically in shape. The fact that she purchased healthy produce items to for her choice of food shows that she is definitely health-conscious and knows how to take care of her body. On the other hand (literally), she was filled with micro-worm crawling germs that she gave life to by placing the germs on her jeans so they could form a new habitat. So I assumed she takes care of her health, but maybe not?

I’m confused…


Test 4 – The Clothing Aisle: We strolled our way into the colorful heaven of consumer fashion. The variety of clothing options is one of the greatest ways to determine the individual’s interests, needs, and also how they like to be perceived. Do they like attention? Do they like to be conserved? With the smorgasbord of semi-designer yet affordable clothing lines, most minds look past the price value. With the clothing wheel ranging from flamboyant trademark graphic tees to three-piece-suit business woman attire, they have plenty of options to feed a person’s variety of attitudes.

First stop, women’s section—of course. She aimlessly walked around, grazing her hands over each article of clothing that came her way like a child in a cornfield. It seemed to me that her sense of touch would help her decide the material for her liking. She stopped and reached into the hanging rack of cotton mixed with polyester and pulled out an overcoat—or cardigan. The ornament of clothing resembled something my grandma would wear while she watched, The Price is Right.

She tried on the plain-Jane beige cardigan, looked into the mirror, and asked, “How do you think it looks?”

I responded, “It looks good…for Mr. Rodgers!”

(We both giggled.)

She replied, “I don’t care what it looks like, it keeps me warm.”

I responded, “Well, it is a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”

We both laughed, and I could see her sense of humor still had some life. She laughed out of embarrassment; I laughed because I’m an asshole.

We continued to fray through the cotton field and yielded by the color-wheel of plain tees and graphic tees. The arsenal of multicultural options had my brain running wild like dogs escaping their kennels. Hot pink, Star Wars, Minnie Mouse, Disney, beer pong queen, neon green, Ghostbusters, My Little Pony, Coca-Cola, Marvel Comics, and black and white tee shirts stacked the clothing racks like an accountant’s desk during tax season.

What was a girl to do!?

She then grabbed a hot-pink My Little Pony graphic tee, topped with a Disney Mickey Mouse, three-quarter sleeved, baseball style shirt, sprinkled with neon green-yellow tank tops, with a side of soft black and white tees. This whirlwind of characteristics that I based my judgment of her clothing choice on, was like juggling an assortment of round fruits. Each article of clothing had a separate personal attachment, whether it was nostalgic for her childhood, drawing attention with the loudness of color, or the subtle everyday-wear piece of clothing—but they were all comfortable. So, throughout the madness of slim-pickings, it always came down to one thing:—comfort for her and not others. Like juggling the assortment of fruits, it didn’t matter what the fruit was—apples, oranges, grapefruits, green apples, kiwis—they were all one shape, which made the choices easy to juggle.

Conclusion: She lives her life in simplicity, knows what she wants, and isn’t afraid of what she looks like to the outside world. She is comfortable inside her own skin, which is a huge plus—but how much does she not care? Will this affect her feminine side? Is she a tom-boy? Does she have a wiener?!

I hope not…

The odd choices of clothing showed me that she is in touch with her own emotions. In touch with her past, as well as her present. She understands how her own life works and, most importantly, what makes her comfortable.

She enjoys a vanilla ice cream inside of a plain sugar cone, but sometimes throws a few sprinkles on top…


Test 5 – Clean up in Aisle Seven!: The array of aromatic Yankee Candles gracefully sucked us in like a perfume attendant inside of Macy’s, “Hi there, welcome to Macy’s would you like to smell the new Dior? It would go fabulous with the dress you’re carrying, or how about some coffee beans to clear your nasal passages?”

The elegant scent of hypnosis brought our fourth sense into a frenzy. As we floated across to the candle section, the rainbow collection of flamboyant attraction would be hard to choose from: Tropical Paradise, Fresh Cotton, Lavender, Chocolate Cake, Cucumber Melon, Pina Coloda, Salt Water Taffy, Cotton Candy, Mountain Lodge, Vanilla Cupcake, Peach Cobbler, Jelly Beans. The abundant selection of scented nostalgia left us excitedly frazzled like a dog breathing in the winds through a car window. So we did what any animal trying to claim territory would do—we smelled them all. As we sniffed around like K-9s inside a Mexican airport, we finally filtered the confusion down to three candles. She was juggling between Tropical Paradise, Lavender, and Mountain Lodge. After the indecisive three-card Monte game, she decided to throw all three candles into the shopping cart.

I could tell she was still frazzled, as she was unsure about her decision(s), because she was still sniffing around even though the candles were already inside the cart. Couldn’t blame her though, you give anyone too many options, and they will tend to believe there is always something better out there than what they already have.—It’s called not being happy with your present being, you spoiled brats.

My mental sand-clock begins to dwindle into dust. I decided to create a diversion to break the time-wasting confusion of indecisiveness. I leaned onto the rack of candles and positioned my right hand behind my back. With my sneaky flicka-da-wrist, I knocked a candle off the rack and “SMASH, CRACKLE, POP,” broken glass everywhere. The Yankee Candle shattered on the ground like peanut brittle, and I started to laugh instantly. She looked down on the ground and then looked up at my face as if she had just witnessed a homicide. She disappeared faster than a ninja dropping a smoke bomb. I decided to flee the scene as well, as I noticed she was already light-years away from the scene of the crime. We were then far, far away from any excursion through Tropical Paradise…

Mission accomplished…

Conclusion: Though she’s comfortable with herself, she’s apparently indecisive of her atmosphere, and for more than one reason. We first entered the candle aisle with a wide variety of scents that could confuse the scent receipting gills of a shark—so I understood the initial anxiety. There was no reason to smell all of them; if you know what you like—you know what you like, period. Her choices of candle scents definitely gave me some insight. Tropical Paradise meant she definitely enjoys the beach life, but obviously not the beaches of New Jersey. Mountain Lodge meant she definitely likes the wilderness of nature, but alone, and obviously not in New Jersey as well. I began to understand that her future is not in place, but she definitely knows she doesn’t want to live in the States. And finally, Lavender, which always comes down to one thing—comfort.

Her being comfortable was already a staple in this Target journey, but it seemed to me that she was not comfortable where she is presently in life. Not her job, not her marital status (which is why we went out), and not where she is presently living—but she is still up in the air about her environmental placement.

So, for now, lavender will help her relax temporarily…

Until I caused the crime scene of candle homicide! When the diversion happened, she ran. Ran faster than a child stealing candy from the corner store (which used to be me). Even though she was already confused, indecisive, and flustered in her present atmosphere—I obviously added fuel to the fire by elaborately changing the scene with extreme intention. I purposely broke the glass to see how she would handle change when she was already pressured. When things weren’t in her comfort zone, how would she react if something dramatic took place? She would run away, just as she did with the breaking candle. She ran and left me dry to clean up the mess and take the heat.

You see, I’m from Belleville, New Jersey, and we don’t run scared when things don’t go our way or become disastrous; we embrace it.

So, with my interchangeable lifestyle, I would need a Bonnie to my Clyde—but in this case, it seemed Bonnie didn’t exist—no bueno…


Test 6 – What are cosmetics?: The wonderful aisle of female dependency where physical enhancements were categorically placed to aid self-conscious disorder and to allow women to one-up each other at formal event’s and live up to the mirage of status-quo that was formulated by the pollution of Hollywood, America, or Jersey Shore.

We cruise on by the no-frills Rodeo Drive and make a pit stop for her to grab some Burt’s Bees hand lotion and lip balm—and nothing else. She walked right past the foundation, eye shadow, and lipsticks, and she paid no attention to the animal-tested purees like a rich women inside an orphanage. “ACHOO!” she sneezed again and grabbed a couple public makeup removing tissues to blow her nose. In super-slow motion, she placed the snot-filled tissue inside of her Wrangler jeans. I was appalled…

Me: “What, are you saving that for later?”

Her: “Hehe, no! I don’t want to litter, so I’m going to throw it out when we pass a garbage can.”

Me: “So you stuff it in your pocket??”

Her: “Well, do you want to hold it?”

Me: “…………………………”

Her: “I thought so.”

I was impressed. Impressed with her not wearing makeup and her logical stand of not littering—she’s a better person than I would be. I would have thrown that booger napkin inside the produce section and laughed about it like a weasel in the night.

But the question hovered again, “Is this chick a dude?” But I began to realize that was only my fear knocking on the walls of my frontal lobe, trying to break in.

No makeup, no boogers, no problem—but appearance matters in this world, doesn’t it? I guess not in hers—much respect to you.

Conclusion: She didn’t care for makeup. She was already comfortable with her natural appearance, or maybe she was allergic? It’s great that I finally met a women that wasn’t addicted to makeup, kind of a relief. There are definitely pros for this situation, but what were the cons? I’m not sure, but this was definitely a selfish plus—only because that meant I wouldn’t have to lie about dinner reservations. Telling her reservations are at 7 p.m., when they’re really at 8 p.m.—but only to get there ten minutes late—god forbid we’re on time! But that wouldn’t be an issue.

The only issue, was the tissue…


Test 7 – Movie Books: We made our way into the aisle of the public eye—Hollywood! Where Disney cartoon movies, exclusive hot new releases, and old hit classics surface the headline of recommended entertainment. We had gotten that far, and that was our final showdown; not to dig up more analyzing information about her, but to see what we had in common—at least for entertainment purposes. That time, I was not going to sit back and analyze what her movies of choice were. I was going to hop out of shotgun and grab the steering wheel to show her what I enjoy to watch in my downtime. Hopefully, she would agree with my taste of genre. I went straight to the comedy section, and the first thing I saw was the Adam Sandler classics, Happy Gilmore and Billy Madison—it was a two-for-one special! Nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for both of those life-changing memorabilias of non-stop laughter. That movie deal was a steal, and I couldn’t help but to throw it in the shopping cart of potential romance. I looked over to her and saw her twirling her hair like a fourth grader as she aimlessly stared into the ceiling. She was paying no attention to my movie choice actions, or maybe I wasn’t paying attention to her because I was sucked into the Happy Madison Productions cult trap. So I tried to snap her out of the daydream.

“Hey, do you like Adam Sandler?” I asked.

“Ummm, he’s okay…” she vaguely replied.

It’s instantly obvious that she dislikes the colossus of comedy. I’m not sure how I feel about people who don’t like Adam Sandler movies, solely for the fact that half of my life is based around referencing his movie quotes. My brain had already been programmed around these scripts like a kindergartener memorizing the ABCs.

“So, you don’t like Adam Sandler movies?” I asked again in a different form.

“I didn’t say that. I said he was okay,” she replied.

“Sooo, you’re saying you don’t like him?” I asked again.

“Haha, I guess…” she replied.

“You guess what? Adam Sandler can’t be okay. He produces the kind of movies where either you love them or you hate them,” I sternly said.

“What are you getting mad about? Do you have a boner for him or something?” she asked.

I said, “Get outta here! On top of him being a genius, I think he’s hilarious.”

(What I really wanted to say is, “I would have a boner for you, if you liked Adam Sandler.”)

“Haha! He’s so your man crush. All you boys are the same,” she said.

“So, do you like him or not?” I asked.

“No, I think he’s stupid…” she replied.

My heart was broken like a fragile glass cup in the microwave. I couldn’t believe the words that spewed out of her mouth. But, it’s not the end of the world. I was sure there were movies we could agree on; the list of Hollywood entertainment is too long to be unshared. So I asked a broad question—which I despise—but by this point, there was no other option.

“What movies do you like? Like, what actors?” I asked.

I might as well have asked her what her favorite color and horoscope sign was—I never felt so uncomfortable waiting for a response.

“Ummmmmm, I don’t know,” she replied.

The awkward silence echoed through the sapped conversation. She twirled her hair even more; if something wasn’t said to stop her from twirling, she would be walking around looking like Tina Turner with a teased up-do.

“You definitely watch Twilight like every other girl,” I sarcastically said.

“Haha, yeah, but I actually read the books, too, and they’re so much better.”

“What?” I rhetorically asked.

“I said the books are better. I only watched the movie to compare it to the book, and let me tell you—the movie gives it no justice,” she replied.

At that time in my life, I had only read two books in their entirety: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in 1990 and The Power of Focus in 2007. I wasn’t a book junkie (yet), so I didn’t comprehend what she was trying to say.

“Oh, well I didn’t know they had a book for Twilight. To be honest, I don’t really read books. I mean, I’ve read books before, but it’s not really my thing,” I said.

“Oh, well, I really don’t watch movies or television. To be honest, I don’t even own a television.”

My jaw dropped to the floor like a Looney Tune cartoon character’s. I was appalled. How could this girl not own a TV? Where was this person from? Was she human? The confusion tangled up my brain like overcooked fusilli. It was the beginning of the end. I didn’t even know what to think or even ask.

My overanalyzed channeling was shut down—figuratively speaking…

The silence dragged us to the book section as I slithered on the floor like a slug. Each book she grabbed felt like she was pouring salt on my back to slow me down from engaging. I didn’t mind that she was hooked-on-books, but the fact that she didn’t own a television completely deflated my first-date analysis.

She stacked books-on-books as if she was preparing for a mid-term. I peeled myself off the ground to get back into play, shook the salt off of my back, and regrouped to keep the date in motion. I side-glanced at the books she threw inside the basket: Feeling Good, Dream Talk, The Secret of Letting Go, Why Mars and Venus Collide. The list of self-help books piled up like Tupac’s police file. I mean, how much help does this girl need? Does she have major daddy issues? Is she not comfortable in her own skin as I perceived her to be? What’s her problem?

The questions swarmed my brain like killer bees, and then I thought to myself, maybe it’s me who needs help. Maybe I could possibly learn something from this person, or from the books she is reading. Maybe the problem is me.

So, I grabbed some books myself…

Conclusion: She didn’t like Adam Sandler (bummer), but maybe that was a sign that I needed to open my world a bit more. Maybe, that was a sign that I needed to break out of my underground shell and communicate with others besides the everyday monotony.

Her not watching television is still a mystery to me, and maybe it could be healthy for me not to absorb the poisons of television. I came to the conclusion that I should be reading more books and enhancing my mind. It could be the key for a better lifestyle.

She got five points for helping me see the bigger picture…

But she didn’t like Adam Sandler, so minus three points for that…


Test 8 – Dollar Spot Up-sells: As we skipped down the yellow brick road, it seemed the “date” had gone longer than usual. I enjoyed her company, but at the same time, there were many things that had bothered me. So there was almost an even balance through my consultation—thus far. A lot of simple things bothered me at the time, so who knows what I was actually feeling. Speaking of simple, we hit the infamous, “Dollar Mania” section. This small department has more items than the entire store. The randomness of consumer bait could make your brain cyclone with a magnetic force to draw in every item in the aisle—I mean, it’s only a dollar, right? You don’t necessarily need these items; you just want them because of the super low price. She sprinted over, slid into home base, and crashed right into the frosted animal crackers, basically breaking open the cage of locked-in sugar zoo pets. All of the animal snacks broke loose and fell directly into our shopping cart.

“Jay, these are gluten-free!” she screamed.

“What the fuck is a gluten?” I said.

“I can’t eat gluten. I’m allergic, remember?” she asked.

I obviously had zero memory of our discussion about this newly discovered poison inside children’s snacks.

“Ooohh yeeaah—but what’s a gluten?”

“You know! It’s in pasta, bread, cookies, wheat, and all types of foods that are manmade,” she said.

“So, it’s a carbohydrate?” I asked.

“No, you dummy, it’s an ingredient they use to preserve food longer. It’s not good for you,” she said.

“So, it’s a preservative?” I asked.

“Oh my god, are you serious?” she asked.

“Well, obviously I am. So, it’s in pasta, bread, yadda-yadda-yadda, but it’s not a carbohydrate or a preservative?” I asked.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked.

“For the hundredth time, no. And are we just going to answer each other’s questions—with questions? Or are you going to give me an answer about the mystery poison?” I asked.

“So I guess you weren’t listening when I described gluten to you the other day?” she asked.

She dodged, giving me an answer by giving me another question. I was completely lost.

“………………………………………………….” as I give her a blank stare.

“UGH! You boys never listen; I’m not explaining it again. Go read a book or something!” she said.

“Well maybe I’ll read one of the seven self-help books you have in that cart. Are those gluten-free?” I sarcastically replied.

“You’re an idiot…” she said.

The tension seemed to rise between the two of us, so I had to come up with something quickly. I grabbed one of the books and bit a chuck of pages on the inside and began to chew down on the recyclable unit like a turkey po’boy.

“It definitely tastes gluten-free!” I screamed in mid-chew while other spectators stared at me as if I was an escaped gorilla in search for prey.

She started cracking up laughing and giggling away like a school girl, as everyone in the ten-by-ten square foot of Dollar Mania was terrified of the loose animals. The tension sank faster than the Titanic. My quick thinking act put everything back in its place—except for the animal crackers.

We continued on with our walk through the bangin’ bargains—she couldn’t contain herself and grabbed every item she walked by. The first thing she grabbed was a beach thermos, followed by a colorful slinky—which I had no idea they even made anymore. She snatched three boxes of Dubble Bubble, a few plastic placemats, notebooks, pens, and a pack of pastel-colored straws. It was obvious she didn’t need those items and was only buying them because they were a dollar—what a steal! This girl’s a sucker for a save.

Conclusion: She’s obviously allergic to gluten, which I was completely confused about. I’d been eating pasta, bread, cookies, and other manmade carbohydrates my entire life—and I felt like a million bucks each day when I woke up. My entire eating food career, I had never heard of such nonsense. So, out of nowhere, this mystery poison was the cause of many sicknesses?

Yeah, okay…

But, hey, who am I to judge? Haaaa!

Anywho, it seemed like a major issue within her body, and I respected her beliefs because she didn’t come off as a liar. During our gluten-free battle, it seemed that she got over our argument with a little humor. That day, her humor had saved many of our miscommunications—but that had been only the first week of us dating, and we were already arguing? It was probably mainly my fault, but who likes to admit that?

The way she grabbed almost every single thing for a dollar was horrifying. This told me that she is a duck, and she would buy anything as long as it was for a small price. That showed me she didn’t truly recognize the value of certain things in life—her value was based on a price—no dice in my book.

The fight was 135 percent my fault—but I guess, if the price was right, the fight would have had more value. And that’s one prize-fight she wasn’t willing to bargain with…


Test 9 – Checking Out: The date was coming to an end as we aimlessly circled the vicinity. It was time to check out. We dragged our feet toward the front area to pay for our items and saw lines of people longer than the government cheese first of the month line. I don’t mind long lines, especially if I’m not in a rush. I’ll wait, but she seemed to get flustered with all of the commotion.

She walked past every single line looking for the shortest one possible and couldn’t seem to choose which one was shorter. Because she is not only counting the people in line, but she is also rounding up on the items per cart, the analyzing is making her very indecisive. It seemed as if she had come up with a formula that would indicate how much time would be spent at the checkout lane. With the elements of people, items, and carts, the components would somehow equate to that self-made variable. I could see her over-thinking the process by obsessing over each checkout aisle and sticking her head in the air like a submarine telescope. I have patience, but I’m not patient for impatience.

Now her anxiety is giving me anxiety as her spastic energy flashes through my nerves like a sound wave from police sirens. We’re hopping from line to line, and she still can’t seem to choose a line.

Finally, I speak up, “Let’s just stay in this line. Who cares?”

She replied, “I care.”

“Why do you care?” I asked.

“Because I care. Let’s move to aisle four,” she responded.

Before she started stomping her feet like a four-year-old child, I decided to go with her flow as she drug my dog collar in every direction. I could tell how dismantled her mind was becoming from trying to make a decision—so I let her be, hoping she would get settled.

“I could take you on this line!” a random cashier yelled.

Everyone in the place hurdled over each other to get to the newly opened aisle as if the lady was giving out free hand-jobs. She aggressively grabbed the shopping cart and barreled her way over to the line, hoping she would get the first spot. With everyone in the place smashing into each other like bumper cars, I nonchalantly whistled while I sped walked into the new aisle, being the first one in line.

“Quick thinking, Jay!” she said.

She raised her hand for a high-five. I looked at her with the same stare a DMV employee would give an immigrant trying to receive his license. There is no way in hell I am being a part of a “high-five” with a her after winning her shopping cart battle—for many reasons: I have too much pride; there is absolutely no way I’m selling out; I’m not going to lose man points, and she had yet to wash her hands from the snot sneezed germicidal culture growing on her palms. I could still picture the slow-motion snot wipe on her jeans. I would rather drink blood from a rabid possum than slap her high-five in the middle of Target.

“Uummm, hellooo? My hand’s still in the air…” she said.

“Put your hand down. I’m not slapping you high-five,” I stated.

“Oh yeah you are, and you’re going to like it!” she replied.

She knew how uncomfortable I was with proceeding with the request. Her new goal was to make me high-five her. Now, I’m no germaphobe but I know for a fact that the boogers were still there. She knew—and didn’t care—about the reason I didn’t want a high-five. She wanted me to be as uncomfortable as possible.

At that point, my mind pictured me faking the high-five and in mid-movement picking her up and body slamming her through the shopping cart and having every spectator inside Target chant “ECW! ECW! ECW!” but I knew that domestic violence wasn’t an option and only a pipe dream.

“I’m waaaaaiting,” she eagerly said.

“Yo, get outta here,” I replied.

“Heyoo, I can’t wait all day here…” the cashier said.

“See, put your items on the conveyer belt, pal!” I sarcastically said.

“I hate you…” she replied.

I LOLed until I reached the level of stomach cramps. But I could see she was super pissed at me for raising my voice—but this was the only way to handle this hand touching situation, my hand escape was victorious.

The cashier was not handling her items with care; she was furiously slamming the items into the bags. She was purposely not showing us any sort of customer service, not even a smile or any eye contact. The cashier’s name tag read Iesha—and so did her neck tattoo. This lady was a mean mugging brollic, and her extensions waved around like snakes on the head of Medusa. Slam all the items you want because I was not getting involved with Iesha’s body language—her vicious vibes would protrude me back to aisle four.

We both gave each other a look that screamed, are you kidding me? Once the situation was addressed with each other, my date slowly kung-fu gripped the conveyer belt and politely asked, “Excuse me, could you please not handle my items in such a manner? I would really like everything in one piece.” She followed that with a gentle smile.

My testicles shot inside and up into my small intestines; I was mortified of what might have happened next. Iesha stared at her (like Medusa) as if she was going to turn her into stone. She snapped her Strawberry Mint Trident as if she was chewing down on bubble wrap as each pop shot sparks out of her teeth. She closed her eyes and exhaled like a beached whale.

“Uugggghhh, I’m sorry ma’am. It has just been a long day. You know these peeps up in here be getting crazy sometimes,” Iesha said.

“Haha, it’s okay. I understand how things could get stressful sometimes,” she replied.

My Target date slowly looked over at me and winked, and her wink ignited a flash that illuminated the entire shopping center with elegance.

My jaw dropped like Roger Rabbit, and I couldn’t believe what had just happened. She killed the tension with kindness—I never knew such a thing was possible. Especially with her short temper.

“One hundred seven dollars and ninety-four cents is yo total,” Iesha said.

“Wait, I have coupons!” she excitedly replied.

She pulled out a wad of coupons that were bigger than the Wall Street Journal. Once again, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Coupon after coupon, after coupon—and then, there it was. The tissue! She separated the cloth of sticky sickness from the coupons, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it back in her pocket.


Conclusion: It seemed to me that she was consistently in a rush, but to go where? I believed her rushed ambition was laying way underneath her cerebellum, where the goal of leaving this state was simmering. She didn’t deal with crowds and overpopulated areas well, which is the number one characteristic of The Garden State. But when Iesha made things even more frustrating, she kept her cool and reacted like a respectable woman. So, when push came to shove, she handled the situation very well. I guess I was wrong about her in that sense in my initial evaluation in the parking lot, or she knew that Iesha would have smacked her around like a pimp smacking his hoes. From the look of all the premeditated coupons, she was either (A) really cheap or (B) really cheap.

Her indecisiveness still made me cringe (as well as the tissue), and it bothered me that she couldn’t make simple decisions. But I guess my entire consultation would contradict my statement. Maybe it’s me who couldn’t make a simple decision…

We started heading over toward the exit. As my Target date consultation came to a close, I wasn’t sure how I felt about everything. There was way too much information—I needed a day or so to soak it all in.

I gradually slid my way over to the automatic anti-bacterial Purell machine and stuck my hand under to receive some freshness—she followed. She took a squirt of foam herself and swished the solvent around on her hands to kill 99.9 percent of the germs that had been cultivating on her palms.

I smiled.

There is a God out there, so I held her hand as we exited the doors, but for one reason only—they were finally clean.

Final Conclusion: I was an overanalyzing, egotistical, judgmental asshole. This is probably the main reason I had been single for all these years, I never gave anyone a chance. My personal guard was so strong and I never let anyone in, nor did I let anything out. I acted as-if I had some valuable treasure to protect—well I have self-value, but at that time I took things way too far, and obviously we didn’t make it too far either.

I mean, we could find many things about people during the time spent together inside of Target. Whether it is meeting new friends, a potential business deal, or even a potential significant other—Target is the Greatland where everyone acts themselves, forgets about real-life issues, and over-shops. Target will tell you so many things about another person—you just have to be aware. So the next time you want to know more about a person bring them to this Greatland

Target—is pretty literal—and it will target a person’s characteristics…

You’re welcome…

Jay Isip

Crack heads are to cocaine, as we are to “Likes”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on June 25, 2015 by Jay Isip


The New Age…

The World Wide Web has taken a quantum leap into our social lives and blindsided our original culture with this new-age way of communication. This global epidemic has pressured the old hands-on generation to get their hands-on tablets, smart-phones, laptops, and other mobile devices in order to stay alive. With this newly found way of living, it also forced parents to raise their children differently, children and teenagers to “bully” each other verbally (I don’t think it’s bullying), young adults to post their best selfie to help pamper their self-conscious issues (or destroy), and forced us all to get addicted to game applications–damn you Candy Crush!

The fact that until now, and only now (until China takes over), everyone who is a member of a social media platform–has developed a new voice that is now heard and has become even more valuable. It grants us power. Power that we have never felt before because we are now able to say, look, like, comment on things publicly, and regardless of what your profession/status is–your words matter and it’s sad. The power these social media platforms have given us have made us all into zombies mesmerized by the hypnotic glow of communication. We spend countless hours, days, years, and soon to be lifetimes by looking down on our cellular devices to check out the new trends, what others are posting, checking the status on our most recent post, how many likes did we get, how many likes did she get, and scrolling, scrolling, scrolling until our thumbs develop a callus as if you had played Street Fighter II for 24 hours strait.

Our Brain on Like’s…

We are all addicts to the digital drug “Like”. Our brain seems to produce the same neurotransmitter when we get “Like” or take in a substance drug – that is called dopamine. Dopamine is in charge of the reward and pleasure center of our brain. So, before we sniff coke, smoke crack, drink alcohol, gamble, masturbate, or pop mollies, our neurons send out signals through our synapse and into our brain where all the pleasurable sensations ignite a molecular boost of excitement. Because of the neurotransmitter dopamine, our brain does not know the difference; it only knows that we will soon be receiving pleasure.

Crazy, but true…

Whether we are searching for a “Like” and receive it–or similar to searching for blow, and sniff it–our senses receive the same feeling of pleasure. On the flip side, if we don’t receive the “Like”, or sniff that line of blow, we get temporarily depressed–and that’s sad.

What is even sadder is that we get equally depressed after the high is over—and we’re searching for more to relive the high moment. So we call our drug dealer again for more blow, we search for the guy with a glow-stick in his cup for more mollies, or we take 57 selfies to post only one photo for more “Like’s”. We are all drug addicts, and most of us have yet to realize….

First sign of addiction— Denial.

We are all addicted to social media; admit it—I know I am. I personally spend hours-upon-hours posting, scrolling, liking, commenting, and writing on all forms of social media outlets for my personal enjoyment, as well as for business. I’m mainly addicted to the fact that I am able to make money sitting behind a computer and/or my mobile device from the comfort of my own home. I am also addicted to judging others based upon their posts and comments and occasionally enjoy a good opinionated-conversational debate—but it’s all fun and games until someone files for cyber bullying—chumps.


Take out your Gavels!

Face it. We all judge each other. These platforms have been made for being judged. It’s the best place on earth to hold a gavel and slam it down on our own terms. We either like a post of a picture, comment about the post, share the post, or not like the post all and discuss it with others–it was all based off our personal judgement.


Female person, “I don’t judge anyone. I’m like, so non-judgmental, but I hate when other people judge me. It’s not right!”

Me, “You just judged people by saying you hate when people judge you—moron. And I just judged you by calling you a moron. You see, it’s never ending cycle.”

Female person, “You’re condescending jerk, can you just ever let things be.”

Me, “No, I can’t stop; it’s in my blood to judge people. Just as it is in you and everyone else in the world to judge—hence, calling me a condescending jerk.”

Female person, “OMG, I’m going to punch you in the face!”

Me, “That would be a domestic violence charge.”

Female person, “OMG! Just shut your trap, you never stop judging people do you?”

Me, “Guilty!”
…of course she smacked me, this ain’t my first rodeo!

(Being judgmental is an entire different topic I could discuss, so stay tuned…)


Social Media Distortion…

The social media platforms, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, AOL (yeah, I went there) etc. are the newly formed digital drug dealers. According to professional social media analyst Helen A.S. Popkin, a columnist and editor of CNBC, the average person will spend 6.5 hours on social media per day–and this is a statistic from three years ago, I could only imagine what the number is now!


“The United States spent 121 billion minutes on social media sites in July 2012 alone, according to Nielsen’s annual Social Media report. That’s 388 minutes — or 6-1/2 hours — per person (if every person in the U.S. used social media). Altogether, that’s 230,060 years we spent staring into the glaring screen of so-called sharing, instead of going outside and playing with our friends, like we’re supposed to do in July!”

Source: (Helen A.S. Popkin

It’s crazy to me how the symptoms of an addict are essentially the same for all aspects of drugs — including social media. Let’s take the “Top 10 Signs of an Addict” from and compare how the social media world relates to each symptom on the list.

  1. You no longer have a choice about whether you want a particular substance or activity.

A symptom of addiction is when your desire for something becomes a compulsion. You describe yourself as “needing” something, as opposed to wanting or liking it.

Most of us (including myself) cannot live without our phones; let alone going on social media. When we first wake up, we grab our phones and start scrolling, liking away, and searching for new photos to post, but the photos you are looking for have been sitting in your gallery for weeks and maybe months. Not only do we check our phones when we first wake up, but also while we getting ready for bed, while we are driving and find ourselves itching for the next stop light (for the first time in our lives we can’t wait to get a red light), while we sit on the toilets, while we are eating, while we are walking—the list goes on. We can’t bear to imagine ourselves without social media; it is now a compulsion to our every moment of activity.

  1. You use it to relax or deal with your problems.

When you start to rely on a substance or an activity to deal with depression, stress, or anxiety, this may be a sign of addiction.

Like I said, we login to Instagram, Facebook, Twitter etc. at almost every moment because it anxiousness, anxiety, and excitement to reach in our pockets, check if we have any notifications, and if we do, it’s relieving to see that someone “Likes” us. It helps us deal with our problems – or issues of self-doubt — by posting something we are unsure of (mainly selfies) to help boost our confidence. So, we feel at ease when people draw attention to our posts, because we feel connected with likeminded people and make us feel belonging to a certain group—or you are on trend.

  1. You start having problems with performing at work or at school.

A person in the throes of addiction may miss time from work or school, either engaging in activities surrounding their addiction or recovering afterward.

This happens ALL the time. I was recently at a new restaurant in Nutley called Gabrielle’s Place, which I heard the food was fantastic, but the servers were consistently on their phone scrolling, and not being able to perform their job efficiently—like drug addicts!  I also see cops on their cell phones while they are on duty—an enormous amount of times, when they are supposed to be “serving and protecting” our community. As so you can see, the severity of this addiction—is unlawful.

  1. You lose interest in activities that used to be important to you.

As the addiction takes hold, it starts to take up more and more of your time. You no longer have the time to keep up with your hobbies and other things you used to enjoy.

C’mon–how many times have we said to ourselves, “I need to stop going on Instagram and Facebook, I can never get anything done!” So we kick the habit for a little bit by deleting our social media accounts, but eventually our spirits get sucked back in the digital world like a proton pack because we feel like we are missing out on the fun like a child that is on punishment.

  1. Spending a lot of time figuring out how to get more of the substance you are addicted to.

An addict’s world starts to revolve around the addiction and how to get their next “fix.” In this context, a “fix” can come from drugs, alcohol, gambling, playing video games, or having sex.

…or, social media! We spend most of our time looking for times we can log back in, check on our posts, comments, and other things going on. And we connect and share our posts to every social media platform available.

  1. Changes in demeanor.

Be on the lookout for mood swings. These may be signs of addiction, especially when they are connected to being unable to get more of the substance or activity you are addicted to.

Example: If we’re out to dinner, sitting at the same table, and you just posted a picture of yourself that you absolutely can’t stand by accident, or posted a comment that you know would not go over well with others. You go to delete the post, but before you could delete the post, I snatch the phone from your hands and won’t give it back for about 25 minutes. How would you feel? End of story…

  1. Keeping your activities a secret from family, friends and co-workers.

An addict will find ways to keep what they are doing concealed from people in their lives. If they are confronted about the addiction, they will usually deny they have a problem.

Mobile devices are usually not allowed in the work area when you are providing a service, but any chance you get in the break-room, restroom, or under your apron–you click that tab on your phone.


When you are having a conversation with your significant other, and place the phone on your lap to get your scroll on.

Person, “Are you on your @#$%^&$ phone?”

Us addicts, “Nah! I’m just shutting off my phone so I could talk to you baby!”

  1. Changes in appetite and/or sleeping habits.

Depending on the type of addiction, the person may not feel like eating or start eating differently. For example, some forms of addiction, such as dependency on heroin, make people want to eat foods that are more sugary. Noticeable weight gain or loss may occur. The person may find it hard to get to sleep at night or sleep a lot more than usual.

Okay, how many times have we missed meals from losing track of time or have gone somewhere to eat because we saw a post of someone else’s food? How many of us have lost countless hours of sleep because we’re aimlessly stalking on social media? Everyone.

  1. You need to take more of the substance to get the same “high” or “rush.”

Over time, you develop a resistance to the substance you are taking, and you need to consume a larger amount to get the same experience as when you started using it.

You just put up a post yesterday from your wedding, newborn child, or championship gold medal. You received 173 likes, 47 comments, and 14 shares. The next day you go to post the same picture, but in a different form and add filters, text, and a border—it’s now a MEME, and you only get 75% of the same return on your “new” post. You try repeatedly to reach that high number of Like’s—but it never happens.

  1. You experience withdrawal symptoms when you try to stop.

Symptoms will vary, depending on the addiction, but you may feel physically ill when you try to stop using the substance. You may feel achy or irritable when you go for any length of time without using.

Have someone hide your phones, tablets, iPads, and your laptop computers so you have no access to any form of social media, or email. Tell me how you feel within 6 hours.

Have you ever left your phone in a taxicab drunk one night and woke up like a crack head digging under the carpet, checking below our car seats, and walking outside the front of the house like a stray dog searching for scraps? Of course we all have and that’s the worst feeling ever—aka withdrawal.

If several of these 10 signs of addiction seem to fit your situation, you may be hooked on a substance or a certain type of activity. Breaking free of it may require professional help.

We are all addicted to the “Like” whether we like to admit it or not — we are all “Like” drug addicts.

In conclusion, please “Like” this article, and comment, and share it—I need my fix!

The 7 Sneeze Commandments…

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on June 23, 2015 by Jay Isip

Person:   Cough…       People’s response: yuck

Person:   Burp…        People’s response: eyeroll

Peron:     Fart…          People’s response: disgusting

Person:   Sneeze…     People’s response: GOD BLESS YOU!


Out of the four semi-uncontrollable bodily functions to help disperse unwanted bacterial microbes, poisonous gases, and other wasteful organisms – it seems that sneezing has earned respect somewhere down the line. Enough respect for the world to react in a manner as if someone has almost lost their life. Our worldview on sneezing has perceived its value higher than any euphemism our body protrudes. Sneezing has changed the world today by blessing one another and wishing each other a clean and longer-lived life. All from a god damn sneeze…

This is ludicrous…

“Blessing one another” after a sneeze originated centuries ago from various misconceptions. Some believed that sneezing helped block evil spirits from entering your body during a split second of potential death. It was presumed that your body was susceptible for a demonic possession and vice-versa. Others believed during a sneeze, you ultimately released your entire soul and by saying God bless you, you would retrieve it – also stopping the Devil from snatching up your loose change like a bully at recess. Or, my favorite, where people believed that your heart stopped during a sneeze and the common courtesy phrase would bring you back to life.

When did we all suddenly become miracle workers? When did we develop super human powers to bring back the dead? Maybe we should all just go to a cemetery and spit “God bless you’s” all over the dirt so we can remake the hit music video, Michael Jackson’s Thriller!

I mean, that’s the only reason I would use it for if this was the case…

Okay, I understand that during ancient times many different problems had difficulty providing proper solutions and even harder because it was all based on trial and error. But this error has long outlived itself as we still to this day consider and hand out God Bless you’s as one of the most powerful common courtesy’s of today.

I’m disgusted. Not only by the germicidal snots of the sneeze, but also the way we take advantage, misuse, and perceive others of this sneezing phenomenon. This worldwide gesture has now become a verbal form of respect that is no longer an option – but a must in every country.

Other countries…

America: God Bless you; or bless you

German: Gesundheit

Arabic: Alhamdullilah (praise be to god)

Hindu: Live; or live well.

Russia: Bud zdorov (be healthy); or rosti bolshoi (grow big)

China: Bai sui (may you live 100 years), crazy how two words in Chinese frame an entire phrase in English.

You get the point…

In our generation, it is much more of a some-what respectful gesture to deliver a blessing after someone sneezes. One the flip side, it is found disrespectful if someone has not delivered the blessing of God after a sneeze. Now, I don’t mind the whole gesture side and respectfulness of acknowledging somone’s sneeze, but there should be rules.

What really puts my panties into a bunch is when people get upset after they sneeze because no one says “God bless you” — now that pisses me off. I know the phrase is a universally known gesture, but there are some people who would just not rather engage – like myself, and for the fact of that manner, we should respect it as others would respect yours. We have taken this “bless you” thing way too seriously, and most of us have no idea why we even say it. We only say it because we have become so accustomed to it in our present culture and generations of the past. The original meaning has become forgotten and buried with the worms, but the value still stands – but why? There is no answer; the common answer would be, “ because it’s common courtesy.” There are 36,890,011 things you could do to act courteous and would have more meaning to your gestures. In my opinion, this “God bless you” courtesy has gone too far, but if we are to continue – I will respect the phrase and its meaning, but I do believe we need some rules.

The 7 Sneeze Commandments…

  1. When you sneeze, don’t expect a God bless you—but accept it when it comes.
  2. When you sneeze, and no one says God bless you, there is no reason to get upset, feel disrespected, or perceive the other as disrespectful—they may have different beliefs.
  3. When you sneeze, and someone says God bless you, don’t feel obligated to say thank you–it’s your choice. (I don’t)
  4. When you sneeze, there is a five-second window for someone to say God bless you. If it exceeds the five-seconds, then your beat street. But, if someone says God bless you after the five-second window–they’re an asshole because they are giving you a courtesy God bless you, which actually hold no value. Your pity is not wanted from my sneeze.
  5. If you sneeze more than three-times, you have exceeded your blessings. Three God bless you’s in a row is the limit.
  6. You can grant someone a lifetime of God bless you’s after one sneeze. When someone sneezes, and you say, “God bless you for a lifetime.” You’re clear as sky, and never have to deliver the blessing ever again to that one person.
  7. If you sneeze on American soils, and someone says “Gesundheit” or blesses your sneeze in another language—it doesn’t count. “God bless you”, or “Bless you”, nothing else. So if you’re going to do it, do it right–let’s not get fancy.

My Turning Point…

The year was 2011 and I was drunkenly stumbling across the Persian carpet hallways of the Taj Mahal in the beautiful slums of Atlantic City. I was headed towards the elevators to head to my designated room for some in-house food service, probably some steak-and-egss. After wandering around clueless, missing steps, and falling, I finally discovered the entrance to the elevators – and by the entrance awaited an older man who sported a baby blue Member’s Only jacket and a trash can for my empty solo cup that was piggy backed by an ashtray to put out the fire from my Malboro menthol 100’s. I stumbled toward the elevators and the older man stared at me in disgust as if I reminded him of one of his drug addict children. He wanted nothing to do with me, and luckily for him we had to share an elevator. I died out the stogie out for “common courtesy” because I knew it was rude to smoke in an elevator – or because it’s illegal. Either way I put it out for the old man and not my health.

“Going up?” I asked.

He doesn’t even budge as he is blatantly ignoring me because I probably looked like a homeless drunk that stole clothes from the Salvation Army – I can’t blame him, I was only trying to be nice, but we all know by now trying to be nice will get us nowhere sometimes.

“Well, I’m going up so I will push the up button for us.” I said.

It seemed his Alzheimer’s started a little early for him, because he didn’t even realize that he was standing in front of the elevator and neither of the buttons were lit up. So, I pushed the “UP” button for us, and he glanced at me with a dirtier look than Clint Eastwood.

Was this guy serious? I’m trying to help you out bro–but like I said, “trying” to be nice doesn’t work in most situations.

“DING. DING.” the elevator door opened as the awkward breeze actually started to make my pores overflow with anxious sweats–or alcohol. We enter the cellblock of vertical movement, and so, I decided to give it one more shot at communication.

“What floor you on sir?” I asked.

“…………………………………” Older man.

He walked over and pushed button to floor nine. It was apparent he wanted no part of my existence, it’s okay though–I understand where he’s coming from and I would do the same if I was in his shoes. The elevator start’s moving upward and so did the awkward silence.

“ACHHOOO!” The man sneezed so loud I saw the evil spirits fly out of his nostrils.

“AAACHHOOO!” again he sneezed louder than the Allergic Tortoise from Never Ending Story

I ignore his sneeze and go on with my business as we both had previously agreed that we do not exist to each other. Several seconds go by…

“God bless you! Oh thank you!” the man sarcastically said to himself, and grilled at me with a sinister grin.

I looked back at the man and said, “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you expect a God bless you?”

“Well that’s what people with good morals usually do.” He said.

My blood started to boil like cannibal stew and I soon envisioned ripping his heart from his chest like Kano. I couldn’t believe what this man had just said to me. After trying to be nice on several occasions in our short time together, this asshole expects me to bless his soul after a sneeze? – KICK ROCKS FELLA!

“Well, I guess I’m not the right person to sneeze in front of — sir.” I sarcastically replied.

“You kids have no manners these days.” He said.

The elevator door opens and I slowly exit with one last statement.

“I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations and God bless your soul. Jerkoff.” I replied.

“Eeehh go f#$k yourself.” He mumbled.

I laughed, not at him, but with him – because we were both assholes. I understand why this older gentleman was showing me no respect, but he didn’t have to take it this far. He was giving me the evil eye because I looked like a disgrace to mankind – and he was right. Who the hell am I to offer good deeds if I couldn’t even take care of myself?

Nowadays, we expect way too much from each other just because we are supposed to act in a certain manner – or mannerisms. We believe we are all owed something just because we offer good deeds and act in good morals. This common courtesy has gone way too far and we have become so accustomed to these everyday manners that we actually forgot what they truly stand for—if we even know at all. We all expect way too much from one another inside of this tit-for-tat generation. We do things in our habitat because it’s a common courtesy and then feel like we are owed something in return for our so-called good deed – like a “thank you” from a “God bless you” after a sneeze.

What happened to just doing good things for no reason?

We live in a world where we are “supposed” to say God bless you when someone sneezes, yet most of us can barely clean up after our own snot. Before we start throwing holy water on the sneeze-festival, how about we clean up our own manners first – with no expectations.

Expect less, and achieve more…

Please, don’t hold the door for me–I’ll be okay without it….

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on June 19, 2015 by Jay Isip


As our generation evolves, the staple common courtesy’s of mankind has seemed to get outdated–at least for me. The one common courtesy that grinds my gears is when someone is holding the door for another person. I understand that there are genuine people out there and instinctively act in favor, help, or generosity out of the kindness of their hearts. But then there are some who have zero common courtesy and act in disregard, meanness, and disdain. I respect both–what I don’t respect is the people who just “act” and put on a front of being courteous. The people who hold the door for you and get upset if you walk to slow towards their offer. If your going to hold the door for someone, then hold it. Besides the fact I’m a fully functional 33 year old man, ‘it’s not necessary for you to hold the door for me–I got it.

There should be rules to this…

The unwritten rules of holding doors should become a new staple in today’s society. To hold the door, or not hold the door–that is the question…

The Unwritten Rules and Regulations:

1. Handicapped people ie; wheelchair, crutches, or some sort of nonfunctional movement you must hold the door.

2. Baby carriages ie; people with baby carriages but only if they’re by themselves, otherwise their significant other could help.

3. A person with both of their hands full, but only if they are entering the vicinity. Because if they are entering, they have to pull the door open and if their hands are tied up, it would be very difficult for the person to open the door. On the flip side, if they are exiting the vicinity, then there is no need to hold the door open because they only have to push, so they could use their shoulder to push the door open. Now, if the door is a double swinging door, it’s win-win for everyone–you’re off the hook.

4. Children. No way Jose! Let them open and close the door themselves, they have to learn and understand the process. Especially if a child is playing a game on their parents smartphone or ipad, look up you little turd there’s a door in front of you!

5. Senior Citizens. This can go either way because the elders carry an array of different characteristics. Some would rather you not, because they don’t want to feel pitied; some have no idea your even holding the door for them; and some think you should hold the door for them because of their age and want to get pampered. This would have to be a game time decision.

6. Zoning. There is an invisible zoning area for when to, or when not to hold the door—which is a 5 X 5 square that begins from the door itself. If the person behind you is out of the zoning area, then there is no need to hold the door open for them. If you do hold the door for them outside the zoning area, now you are not being courteous–you’re actually being rude. When the door is held outside the zoning area, the person behind you has to now pick up his pace to meet your satisfaction–and if the person fails at getting to the door in time, the person who originally held the door is now upset. Nobody wins, it’s a lose-lose situation. Don’t hold the door if the person is not inside the zone–it’s that simple.

Now, either way, things get extremely awkward because in today’s world many of us would rather not do something courteous but we spend most of our energy trying to be, so others think we are courteous. If you don’t want to hold the door for someone–then don’t. If you sincerely enjoy this process, then hold away.

The Breaking Point

About five years ago I was at the Nutley Diner (artist formally known as Park Diner) and I was taking food to-go. I simply paid for my Mexican omelet with a side of oatmeal and sliced bananas–and off I go. I walk towards the front exit and notice a bit of a confrontation between a middle-aged couple entering the diner, and an elderly couple exiting the diner. Both couples seemed to be fully functioning, just had a difference in age. Both couples, were in the zoning area of the door holding confusion. What were they to do?

Middle aged man, “Please after you.”

Older women, “No its okay sonny, you go.”

Middle aged man, “Oh no, please I insist you go first.”

Older women, “I said it’s okay, we will be fine.”

Older man, “Yeah don’t worry about me kid, I’m going to take a little while.”

I glance over to the older man and notice he had a cane, but was insisting on moving on his own. It seemed he was fully functional, just at a slower pace. Props to the old man for wanting to do things on his own, especially something that’s least important–like holding the door.

Middle aged man, “It’s ok I’ll hold the door for you.”

Older man, “I said I got it kid! You don’t have to hold the door for me.”

Older women, “Yes, its okay, let my husband do it him self, hes a big boy! haha”

Middle aged couple, “No worries, I’ll hold it.”

It’s obvious this middle aged man was sticking to his guns, and wanted to hold the door open for the older couple because it would fluff his ego about being a considerate human. The middle aged-man’s wife stood there in blankness like an uncooked hotdog. But at this point, the older couple is getting aggravated with the over-courtesy this young man is bringing to the table. What a dick…

The back-and-forth confrontation of door holding had now become more awkward than catching your parents having sex. I couldn’t handle this situation anymore.

Me, “Okay people, then I’m going to go!”

As I strut my way through the door opening of awkwardness, I could feel the middle-aged couple stare at me as if I had six-heads. All of a sudden I felt a kung-fu grip on my right bicep that spins me around to only end up face-to-face with the older women. Now I was frightened.

Older women, “Good for you son, take the lead.” and smiled at me

Older man, “Yeah, somebody has to go while this kid holds the door!” and smiled at me too.

I call this taking risks when opportunity arises–success.

I LOL’ed through the hallway of the entrance/exit of the diner, as the middle aged couple sat there in disbelief, regret, and embarrassment–all because they wanted to “do something nice.” This is a pure case of, “when keeping it real goes wrong.”

At this turning point in my life, I knew now that holding the door for someone–is over rated. You want to do something nice? Go feed a starving child from a third-world country–hey, I’ll even hold the door for you.

Costume Vs. Charisma

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on June 17, 2015 by Jay Isip


Many of us (including myself) cannot tell the difference between our own characteristics. It is hard to distinguish between who we are, who we had become, and who we pretend to be. Sometimes we want to become someone we are not, so we wear a costume to hinder our true charisma. We develop a shell to block our true selves because we are afraid to show the world who we truly are, or in most cases have gotten so caught up in our own costume that we completely lost our pure charisma.

Our charisma frequently changes if we continually wear our costumes…

If we wear the costume as a villain, we tend to send the wrong message, we influence others to do things we really don’t believe in, and we keep our masks on to have others join in on our untrue actions to help convince our selfishness that we are doing the right thing. But when the mask is off, we are a nobody and it saps our energy.

On the other hand, if we wear a super-hero costume it helps others in a positive way–it is still equally as draining. The costume we are now wearing is helping others find there way with positive charisma but, it’s still a costume. We get caught up in other peoples mess and help them clean it up by using our so-called super powers. The powers we have when the costume is on, is not our true power–it’s only used to show others and have them believe we attain them–which is a lie. When the mask comes off, we are still a nobody.

I’m guilty for this as well, I have had many costumes through the years just to keep myself guarded from others, as if I had some something special or sacred to hide–I had nothing. I was a low-life piece of garbage (at one point) but made everyone believe I was larger than life. My circus acts were nothing but a show, to make people laugh, to make others believe I was some type of super hero, or villain. But when the mask came off, and I was alone at night–I crumbled like the waffle cone–I was fragile.

My charisma–was false….

Until I finally woke up one day and said, “I can’t feel like this anymore.” I looked into the mirror and barley recognized the reflection and cried like a little school boy that lost his lunch. The costume I used to wear was attached to my skin like blood sucking leaches–and that’s what the costume did, sucked my blood dry of my true character.

Which ever costume we choose to wear, remember that its still a costume. If our costume is to have others join us on our villainous actions, then that’s bad charisma. If our costume is to help others in a positive manner, then that’s good charisma. But. either way, it’s not pure charisma and will never last forever.

So how can we develop a long lasting character, or spread pure charisma?

Take the mask off and be ourselves….

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