Archive for May, 2013|Monthly archive page

If I’m Gonna Be Heckled I’m Gonna Go Back To Doing Stand Up

In bitch, bullshit, Comedy, drama, fights, New England, politics, stand up, strip club on May 29, 2013 at 9:14 pm

I’m gonna write about my neighbor because I hate her.

I generally try to get along with the people I live near. I’m not that friendly but I’m not a shitty neighbor. I try to keep the noise down after the normal day person hours. I generally live a much quieter life than I would if I didn’t have to. I am inclined to play loud punk music and dance all night. When I have people living in the same building I do my damnedest to be respectful. I’m also rather self aware. I have come to a place in my life where I am content to live the way I do. I know myself and I know what is important to me. I live across the street from a liquor store because I like to drink beer. I like to drink alone. I live in a rather urban area and most of the buildings in the surrounding area are inhabitated by gentrifying hipsters, the few African American families that still live in the area, obviously being pushed to the other side of the river.

When I moved into the building more than a year ago the other units were entirely inhabited by single white men. There were not families, there were not children. The building was awake late into the night and it seemed that the other residents had a similar habit of heading across the street to the liquor store about ten minutes before closing time. I fit right in with my alcoholic vampire ways.

A few months passed and one of the units became available on the first floor. I thought about renting it and turing it into a dungeon, a spare place to house people who come to visit, or a spot to grow weed. None of these made any sense as I already have a huge flat and really didn’t need to take on the studio. It is the sort of thing I always want to do, rent another unit in a building where I am content and would like a little more room, for some invented reason that I only invented because when a unit is available I think about the things I could do with it. Nah, I knew I should not rent it. So I didn’t. When the landlord did rent it he rented it to the first person who was not black. I watched it happen. My landlord is a racist. Apparently he thought a young single mom with three babies, no car, no job, who smokes constantly and screams when she exhales would be a better fit than a person of color. I blame my landlords racist rental practices for my current dilemma: I have a heckling hippie at the bottom of my stairs. What the hell did I do to deserve this?

At first she seemed friendly. She invited me to stop in and say hi. I hung out. I got drunk with her friends. But many months passed and in that time she has morphed into WORST NEIGHBOR OF THE DECADE. Even worse than when I lived next to this guy:


She has taken to heckling me when I come down the stairs. She follows me out to my car, screams at me, talks shit about me to anyone she can including her five year old child. She knows me as an allies, so she is always saying this fake name she knows me as, then following it up with all these bizarre comments. She comes out of her apartment when I come down the stairs, to taunt me. Yesterday I realized that she is not a neighbor she is a heckler. She is that person who comes into a comedy club and makes snarky comments at the comics, she is the retired stripper or the big fat dude who got way too drunk and sits there saying things like ‘is that all you got, show me some more baby, oh yeah, work the pole’ totally distracting the other patrons and trying to throw the performer. There are two ways to deal with a heckler. Confront them and make them ashamed for their actions and thus shutting them up, or ignore them and hope they will grow tired of the nonsense and shut the fuck up. Eventually they get tossed out of the club.

I tried confronting her. You see she digs holes in the parking area. She told me she was building a fire pit. I asked her if she had considered the safety of the situation. The pit is next to a wooden fence, under a very low hanging tree, eight feet from the building, and NEXT TO MY CAR. I was polite and suggested that her fire pit could set things ablaze and that it would really suck to have the place burn down. She began screaming at me while she dusted off the propane grill that sits next to her ‘fire pit’ she went on and on about how paranoid and scared I am of fire. This is an urban environment. We are in a mixed use commercial space, walking distance to Nordstroms. A fire pit is illegal. I asked her if the landlord knew. She assured me that it was fine and that nothing would catch fire. While screaming at the top of her lungs, at 2:30 in the morning.

Why is she digging a hole at 2:30 in the morning? Why is she screaming at me? Who the fuck is this nutter living downstairs? Why is she so interested in me that she has taken to heckling me as I come and go? What the hell did I do to deserve this?

On NiteFlirt Tonight!

In Uncategorized on May 27, 2013 at 10:59 pm

I’m on niteflirt tonight.

follow this link and click the call button


Adventures at Gold Club

In Adventure, corporate america, culture, fetish, Happy Hour, New England, Widow Centauri on May 27, 2013 at 9:55 pm

I have been working at the Gold Club in Groton Ct for about a week now. It is exhausting. I was really spoiled at the Cadillac Lounge. They let me do anything I wanted. At GC I am trying to not piss off management. I was hired after both my size and my age were questioned. I need to not act like an entitled old lady stripper. I have no seniority here. I’m dancing on stage for the first time in years. At Cadillac Lounge they almost never put me on stage and when they did I just entertained myself on the huge island of stage. GC has three stages in two different buildings. I am constantly running back and forth from club to club. I’m up on the stage shaking my ass. I’m rocking the super fetish model look with a corset and stockings. I wear a wig. The look is really good but it is the least appropriate thing to stripper dance in ever. Popping my ass while wearing a corset is really starting to dig into my flesh.

Last night my wig fell off while I was dancing on the nude stage. There were three teenage boys sitting in front of me and no one else in the place. I guess I have that going for me. Very few people actually saw my wig fall off. I told no one. I just grabbed it and put it right back on my head and told the boys to tip me. After all, they got to see an exposed part I don’t generally expose on the stage. It was extra to see me with my wig off.


This is a young dancers club. I hate being on strip club stages. I’m young enough to be up there but old enough to know better than to make a habit of it. Last night a woman walked into the club made a beeline for me on stage and reached right up and tried to take my glasses off. “I love thoooose” she said in a slurred voice. Apparently she was so drunk she thought she was at the mall and I was some mannequin she could remove the glasses of. I almost decked her with my instinctual reflex to block the hand coming toward my face. She looked all butt hurt.

And there was Mr Look At Me, I’m So Cool. I have a love hate relationship with people who have just steeped out of the 1980s. It must have been quite a fucking party to be a young adult in the 1980s. Mr. Look At Me, I’m So Cool was 50 ish, built like a body builder, dressed like a banker, fakely tanned, clean shaven, and five feet two inches tall. He was handing out hundred dollar bills like candy. All the dancers swooned. The bartender ignored every other thirsty wanker at the pub. In his own mind Mr Look At Me, I’m So Cool was a gawd among men. It was so self righteous and egotistical I could not pander to it. I saw all these strippers jumping for him. He pad the bartender to chase him around like an overgrown child. He was pathetically archetypical of the ideal strip club patron. Mr I’m So Cool, Look At me comes in about once a month, like Santa Clause. When people see him they know, the club sugar daddy is here. Everyone was so excited.

But I resent 1980’s men in a way that can only be described with a photo of Ronald Reagan on a dartboard. Yes, I need his money. But I hate him. So, I play it as cool as I can. I do not spit in his face or engage him in the conversation of wealth separation, corporations bedding down with politicians, or any element of patriarchy. No I just smile distantly and wonder how Mr I’m So Cool, Look At Me sleeps at night. I want to fuck his ass with a huge black dildo and make him lick the shit and blood off of it. I want to make him give a hundred million dollars to charity. I do not want to have fun with him. I want to take his money. It will better serve me.

If nothing else The Gold Club has been a change in scenery. It is a much more fast paced club than what I am used to. I am used to moving at my own speed. Not being rushed by a middle aged man with hair down his back who plays three different songs and expects the respect of DJ Aristocat, Miss Kitten, or Dmitri from Paris. I’m not sure how long I can keep up at this pace. I really do like the club. Maybe there is a better way to work it.

On Being a Fat Stripper

In Booty Gonzales, corporate america, discrimination, drama, New England, weight loss, Widow Centauri on May 26, 2013 at 7:03 pm

Let me start off by saying that I am not fat. I do not have a complex. I do not think I am fat. For the industry I am often considered to be fat. So, now you know.

My body is actually quite lovely. My measurements are 36D, 25,40. I have a tiny middle with visible abdominal mussels and a big juicy arse. People go crazy for it. Strippers ask about it, touch it, wish they had it. Customers in clubs love it. They all say ‘wow, that is a lot of ass’ and so does management.

Managers of strip clubs often have the most racist, sexist, classist value system when it comes to body types. They see my ass and assume that I am too big to work at the club. I might actually weigh less than some of the other dancers but because they are proportioned more evenly the managers don’t notice. All they see is my huge rump.

And it makes me a lot of money.

But the managers only see a white girl with a large rump. They have told me: ‘you have too much ass for a white girl,’ ‘your too thick,’ ‘come back when you loose 20 lbs.’ If I lost 20 lbs I would still have this big ass but I would be skin and bones everywhere else. I could drop 7 or 8 lbs without looking like Maria Shriver in the rear. If you have never seen this woman in person you might not know that her ass it totally out of proportion with the rest of her body. Think stick figure with a giant beach ball glued onto the rump. The rest of her seems to look like a normal human but she was also blessed by the ass gawds.

The first time a black man told me I had too much booty the dude was a strip club manager. I asked him if he preferred the Asian ladies or something. He told me that if I was black I could get away with this shape. But white girls are not allowed to have this much ass. It is against the rules. My ass is an outlaw!

If I were actually a fat stripper I might have heard that from a customer. Never once has a customer suggested that my ass is too big to be working in a club. It is big but I can fit through the door. I can fit into a bikini and look really pretty swell. Come see me dance soon. I’m obviously getting too old and too fat for this gig so my days are numbered. I have to go to work. I hope I don’t tip over from all this booty.







This is what I look like in the light of day. I had no idea my skin was so white.

Full Moon SOC

In Uncategorized on May 26, 2013 at 5:19 am

It took me three days to recover from working two.  I was swollen and stiff.  My nail polish was chipped.  I was tired, yet unable to sleep.  I needed to go to work but I took a sleeping pill and decided to go to work on Saturday.  


I woke up at noon and spent five hours getting ready.  Then I went to my car.  It coughed and gasped.  It rattled.  It choked.  It did not start.  I came back inside and tried it again in half an hour.  Still nothing.  Again an hour later.  Nope.  I was all made up but had nowhere to go.  


I stared at the internet for a few hours, determined to distract myself with a forum I spend time on.  Nothing smart.  Every post seemed hostile and against what I thought.  Then I went to the bathroom and remembered that the last time I was at work I spent a large part of the time I was there thinking about continuing my career in academia.  I was swinging around a stripper pole hating the one dude in the club during a red sox game.  Without his presence I would not be required to dance.  I just wanted to go to IUB or UNL or any other big research institution that has funding for me so I can get my ass out of the sex industry once and for all.  


I am the oldest fattest stripper at my club.  


I don’t think I can cope with academia any longer.  The sunshine is so blinding and painful.  How can I cope with day people and day teaching and daytime?  I should move to mexico and be a writer.  I would love to be a highly paid writer and never worry about anything again.  But life is not that simple.  I have too many people who need me to get my shit together.  I have too many bills that are always due.  How will I ever get out of this?  Will I ever even get to a point where I can get out of this with something?  If I manage to get through this I will be happy, I guess.  Happy.  What is that? 


I figured I would come in here and write for a few minutes and learn a few things about myself.  Maybe get some insight.  Should I work on my statements, my books, my future or should I watch TV or fuck off on the internet?  Yeah.  I need to pick a topic and then I need to work on that.  Slow and steady.  Maybe learn to multi task.  


Why do my hands smell like cigarettes? Is it the smoky club I work in? 


I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life.  


But I hate my neighbor.  A deranged hippie with three babies moved into the studio apartment on the first floor.  She is digging a hole in the parking area in the middle of the night.  She says she is building a fire pit.  So now on top of all of my little problems I have to worry that some drugged up hole digging hippie is going to set my car on fire.  The fire pit is really one meter from the hood of my car.  Tops.  


And I get to travel.  Oh goodie.  I’m going to Socal, NYC, home for a couple weeks, then Vegas.  Then back to NYC.  If I was driving I could stop and pee on people but I am not driving, I will be traveling via the mean and nasty airlines.  I need drugs.  


Lorelei suggested to me that I am a drug addict.  I don’t think I’m gonna talk to her anymore.  I only do drugs with a reason.  If I am working under a deadline, if I am in desperate need of staying calm and not getting arrested, if I need to take a nap.  Alright maybe I am not addicted to a particular drug but maybe I use drugs.  Maybe.  


A client of mine freaked out when I offered him some ecstasy.  I missed out on a trip to iceland because I was begin thoughtful.  Well fuck me.  


I hate the summer.  Everything is always so fucked up in the summer time.  


New England Bitches who want to be in my good graces should contact me ASAP.  I’m applying to schools all over the country.  I can’t promise that I will stay here or that I will be accepting any new clients or slaves after one years time.  I’m sure a year sounds like a lot of time to a wanker.  But in a year I might only have time and patience to see three new bitches.  


I want to be an adult now.  I’m sure it will suck. 

CT, SoCal, NYC — NOW

In Adventure, Comedy, dominatrix, fetish, Golden Showers, Los Angeles, New England, pissing, Public, San Diego, strip club, traveling, Widow Centauri on May 24, 2013 at 9:18 am

I will be at the Gold Club in Groton CT most of the time until 3 June.

Los Angeles the evening of 3 June.

San Diego 5 June

NYC 6 June.

I will be performing at The Red Umbrella Diaries on 6 June at Happy Ending on the Lower East Side. Come and enjoy a night of story telling. It is free and starts at 7PM.


I hope to have some fun!

Driving Around, Cape Cod Bound, Then …

In Golden Showers, kink, New England, Public, strip club, traveling, Widow Centauri on May 7, 2013 at 4:36 pm

I’m heading to strip clubs tonight.

It is noon and I am awake. This really is a huge to do. I can’t usually be awake when the sun is up. It is the middle of my sleep cycle, so I might as well go put on some hooker make up and head to a club. But not all clubs hire same day around here. Some do, but not all.

Becasuse I know you want to come and play tonight here are my plans:

I’m hoping to be at Fantasies in Providence RI by 2:30 PM. I’m under the impression that when they hire dancers they don’t let you work the same day, so after that I’ll head to Zachary’s on the Cape (Mashpee I think). I’ll get lost, and I’ll be running late (because I always am), but hopefully they let me stay. I don’t expect them too. They are the only club on Cape Cod and I’m pretty sure they only hire in the winter, despite what the person on the phone told me. They only deal with new dancers until 5:00 PM so I aim to find the place before then. When they blow me off because there is no snow on the ground I’ll make a choice to head to The Gold Club in Groton CT, or to Worcester to check out the new mega-plex-uber-strip-club Emperors Palace. I assume that if I go there they will let me stay. They are a new club and I figure they need dancers. But it is new girl season, so if they tell me no, I’ll go give Hurricane Betty a try.

At this point I’m not sure which way I will go from the cape. If you want to meet up for a road side piss stop send me a text and I will call you back when I have a moment. If you want to wait till I figure out where I will be tonight, wait for me to update my twitter. Then jump in your car and bring me lots of money.

I Have Food, This is Good

In Adventure, American Dominatrix, bathroom, deviance, dominatrix, fun, Golden Showers, kink, New England, pissing, Public, Widow Centauri on May 7, 2013 at 4:19 pm

After reading my rant, sure as shit, some bitches came climbing out of the wood work all butt hurt saying “I’m a regular, no?” My response of ‘who is this?’ Didn’t exactly please them.

There is no fighting the fact that I am in a bad mood. I have all these big plans but every time I hear a big truck rumble to a stop I wonder if it is the power company, come to shut me down. Before I leave I’m gonna make sure there is a flashlight by all the entrances. Fuck on a stick.

But anyway

Someone called and said “I’m sorry you are in a bad mood Widow, can I take you shopping, or somehow make things better?” Of course I said yes. But I was still uncertain about who I was speaking to. He asked me where I was goign to be dancing. “I have no idea, some really well behaved subbie called me on niteflirt and totally derailed my plans to make it to a club at a decent hour. Why don’t we just meet at the supermarket, since I’m out of food.”

When we met up I knew who he was. He is a piss boy I have seen several times. As we wandered through the supermarket I threw things into the cart. When I found products that I thought would be particularly well suited for tormenting him with I would open them. “Pickled egg?” I asked coyly, as thought he had a choice. I shoved the whole jar of picked eggs down his throat and made him drink the brine. I smiled, then we moved on.

I put pretzels in his nose and marshmallows in his ears. I dressed him in a series of hideous grocery store rompers, sun hats, ugly shades, and threw a big ass beach umbrella in the cart. We made our way to the pathetic produce section. I spanked him with a leek and gagged him with an apple. Other shoppers were giggling, huffing, trying not to look, and being incredibly polite as people in New England are apt to be. One old lady looked at us with a big grin and said “you two are having more fun than anyone in this market. I want whatever you had, pour me one” and then turned and went back to her shopping seemingly quite content to have seen something amusing durring what was surely an otherwise mundane shopping experience.

When I was sure I had everything I needed I asked the person behind the deli where the bathroom was and we headed that way. After parking the cart by the bathroom door I pulled him into the multi-stall bathroom behind me. I could have gone into one of the stalls but I had to pee so badly by this point that I just hopped up on the counter, lifted my skirt and said “drink.”

He dropped to his knees and I heard them hit the tile. It sounded painful. His jaw dropped and I shot a little stream of piss right into his egg hole. “Swallow” I told him. Then he opened back up and I just let it all out. I pissed in his mouth. All over his face, into the bits of pretzel and marshmallow that were still stuck to his face.

Surprisingly he was able to drink most of it. He did get wet, but not nearly as wet as he would have if he had not been an expert piss chugger. There was a little puddle on the floor. “Lick that up” I said, as I grabbed a paper towel and dried myself off. After he was done licking the floor clean I jammed the paper towel in his mouth. “Wash your hands” I told him, “make bubbles.”

At this point I was just being a smart ass. But I was having a good time. After we are cleaned up we went to the register and he bought the strange assortment of things in this cart, including an empty jar that previously held pickled eggs. When the cashier looked at it I said “he got hungry.” The cashier looked at him, a bit wet, bits of food all over him, reeking of piss. The cashier didn’t say a word.

After loading the groceries into my car he said “ I hope I was able to cheer you up a little bit Widow.” And I sent him on his way.

I’m in a slightly better mood. I have an icebox full of food, so if the power company shuts me down while I’m out tonight I will have a massive mess to deal with. Hopefully that does not happen. Maybe you will come see me at whatever club I end up in. Watch for the tweet, then come and play.

A Rant

In American Dominatrix, bitch, bitchy, bullshit, dominatrix, drama, Golden Showers, Massachusetts, New England, pissing, politics, Public, whores, Widow Centauri on May 4, 2013 at 10:06 pm

I’m just gonna bitch about my life for a second and you, dear reader, will either read it, ignore it, label me an entitled little while girl and move on, or whatever the fuck you want. Who knows maybe it will be your favorite and you will print it out and send it to people as Christmas cards.

I don’t think that life is this hard for everyone. I go to a lot of effort to make sure that the people are around me don’t know how much pain I am in. I cry from the pain several times a week. After finishing that mammoth thesis I have a ll these big plans for it. But now that I have worked six, maybe ten days in the last six months I am not surprisingly out of cash. Oh poor fucking me.

And I don’t want any snarky BS about how if I would answer my phone, or somehow deal with people better. I do what I do in the way that I do it and you can love it or walk, bitch.

My legs hurt, my feet hurt, my life feels like a big sham. I should be so happy to have finished school. I assumed that I would just get right to work. But I am tired. Tired from lack of sleep, a strict lifestyle that ended in an epic party with two of my favorite people. I’m straight exhausted. And now I need to go find a new club in New England.

Oh fucking goodie. A New England club, that sounds super. There are few of them that are open later than one or two in the morning. If I’m gonna go to all the trouble to look like a hooker I want to work till the sun comes up, eat some eggs in a greasy spoon, and high tail it home with the rest of the night shifters.

One am? Please I’m not even getting warmed up by that time.

I have been in this business too long. The rest of the world is starting to emulate my underground seedy culture. I always liked that it was seedy and that it was dirty and that we were all getting away with something. Now smut is ubiquitous. Little 18 year old drugged up hoochies hope that they can be the next rap queen, while I just realize that this is how I pay my rent. Which has yet to be paid, or even generated.

I have been in this business a long time. I have no regulars who I would call regular. I have turned a couple of regulars into sometimes friends, check ups on facebook, a random hello if we bump into each other, but no, I have no regulars. After all this time I don’t have one person I can call and say ‘get your ass over here with a grand and cancel your plans for the next two days” Not one?

Is it because I am a bad business person? Is it because I would rather sit here in my filthy clothing (I have not done my laundry in eight months but that is a different tale of woe) and write about the dirty things I have done? Is it because I am horribly agoraphobic? There is really so little I want to go outside in the light of day for that I’m just not that into meeting you before, say, 10 PM. I could pull off 8, but not in the summer time.

I long for the darkness and snow to encroach upon us again so that I might have some legitimate weather gripe “oy, so much snow, its so fucking cold” yeah other people bitch with me when it is cold. But few want to bitch about the sunshine and warmth. Nope! Misery loves company and I’m wicked lonely.

I like holing up and writing. But it is not quick money. It is not the rent I need right now.

I will scrape together some level of enthusiasm to paint my face and drag my over fed ass into a strip club in the coming days. Though I have no idea which one. A Maine loop appeals to me, though if I get there and they say I’m too fat well I guess I just went all the way to Portland on the last benji I have sitting crumpled on my make shift desk.

At this juncture I would rather play than dance. Right now I want to take someone out and make silly games happen. I want to wear my clean and pressed suits, not my filthy bar scented stripper clothing. The dress that I found a cockroach sitting on in the last dressing room I was changing in. I am getting to a point where I am hating on dancing. I don’t mind the slut part, I mind the physical labor of being on a slippery stage with a dingy germ covered pole popping my ass for singles and the potential that someone will get a lap dance, a VIP, give me more than just that dirty single. Yeah the physical labor of dancing naked is horribly exhausting to me. But the rest of it, the skimpy clothing, the brief encounters with strangers for money in a semi public place — that still turns me on.

So I have to get my lazy bones up, rub some tiger balm on them, stretch, put on my blond wig and red lips and high tail it to a titty bar. First thing Monday morning.

Yeah, so I need to switch up my sleep cycle and deal with this nonsense.

Gawd isn’t their anyone in New England who wants to have fun, let me taunt them in public, maybe piss on them in a public bathroom or out in the park?

Where have the few regulars I have had over the years — what has become of them? Are they reading this? Do they want to play but think that someone will see them? Do they long for me to have a dungeon again, to come to their place, to play for free (cause they have no money and everyone in the fucking world is giving it way for free) — oh fuck if I know.

I’m just bitching to make myself feel better. Something about writing and bitching makes me feel a lot better.

I’m gonna write all night, I think. Maybe I’ll tell some stories that have not been told. Maybe I’ll post them, maybe I’ll work on the undone writing projects that I have waiting in the corner of my mess. Maybe I will do my laundry, take it outside, set it on fire and find someone to take me shopping.

So many maybes — the only thing I want to do it write.

I am sorry liver. That was totally uncalled for. Please forgive me.

In Adventure, deviance, drinking, fun, pissing, Widow Centauri on May 2, 2013 at 6:27 pm

Some time back I assumed that finishing school would make me a little batty. I have been a career student for a long time. Being a never quite finished graduate student has become part of my identity. I assumed that I would be a mess when I finally finished. I was right. I have been throughly enjoying my post grad school breakdown.

Months ago I decided I would make a trip to NOLA, immediately after my thesis deadline. I figured that I could be a total fuck up drunk and really sort of celebrate or that if I was not finished I would not be able to relax in the big easy, and that was just not going to happen. So I finished on time and I went to New Orleans.

I spent the first three days Dancing at the Deja Vu on Bourbon street. The money the first two days was crap and I assumed that I would not be able to cope with the situation if it continued as such. But day three a drunk tourtstia gave me a grip of money and we had a fine time in the champagne room. At some point he tried to call me a girl, as a way to insult me. I figured I already had his money so I began to tell him about my thesis. Then when he tried to get a little handsy I showed him the nerve tumor in my foot — sexy, I know. I went home and counted my money. I had enough to entertain me, and the people I had invited, for the rest of the week.

On our way to the festival we had breakfast at Elizabeths and then asked the bartender to call us a cab. We were waiting outside and the cab came. Some dude in a NY Yankees cap moved toward our car. I snatched it right up and jumped in. The cab driver said I couldn’t bring my drink, so we all pounded our beverages as the yankees fan started to whine ‘I called a cab too, how do I know this is your cab?” “Cause I’m in it” I told him. No Yankeess fan was gonna make off with my ride. Me and my people left him standing there looking like the sad man child he was. To the fairgrounds!

At the festival we got wet. Like really really fucking wet. Thunderstorms passed through all day. We saw almost no music, eyeballed some totally amazing and WAY out of my range art, had a couple of beers and pretended we would be able to get into the tent that had BB King playing. As we approached the tent the rain and lighting and thunder and running drunk muddy tourists started to whirl around. We assumed there was no way into that tent. We did not however anticipate the storm only getting heavier, and lasting for hours. We were flooded out of the fairgrounds, drenched. We found some coffee and tried in vain to get a cab, or get on a bus, or somehow make a plan. We were the very last group of wet tourists to get out of there.

But I did manage to pee on a tree in a way that was so super I was really impressed with the level of public pissing that I have mastered. Few women will ever achieve this level of skill. I was able to lean up against the tree, pull my panties aside, shoot piss right out under my skirt and in the massive downpour, no one even noticed.

By the time my people were scheduled to leave, I was trying to figure out if I should stay in NOLA another week, and work the second weekend of Jazz Fest, or come home. I was really on the fence about it. But I had been totally wasted drunk for about a week. I was taking pills and drinking. I got so shitty drunk the last night I was there that I smoked a cigarette with a french guy. I bit the filter off and just puffed the whole thing. I have only smoked two other cigarettes alone in my life. Both times I was drunk and with some french people. I have the disposition of a smoker but I’m a tender flower, my lungs really don’t like tobacco. Yes I am a tender flower DAMIT! Despite the consumption of more alcohol in one week than I had had in two years. I straight didn’t give a fuck. I was on a bender. Drinking, popping pills, smoking cigarettes.

And now I’m home. Home to deal with my life. To deal with the eight months of unwashed laundry shoved in garbage bags, bulging at my closet door. Home to deal with the fact that I didn’t pay the electric bill and I was really pretty stoked to see the lights are still on. Home to dodge my landlord for a few days while I go find a random club to dance in. Home to call the department of education and see what the damage is. Home to deal with all of my undone bullshit.

I really wish I had been able to stay for the duration of Jazz Fest but my inner responsibility got the better of me. And I kept bumping into Hollywood people. All these shit actors were fucking everywhere. Everyone at the pub was second city, I was drinking with the same people I had been drinking with in LaLaLand, only there were flying cockroaches and rats everywhere. I took it as a sign and came home to salvage whatever resemblance of adult life I can.