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.