Fuck the Law of Attraction and The Secret and all New Age religion bullshit

I bitch a lot about New Age religion on this here blog. That's because someone whom I really like is being devoured by that shit. A ridiculously intelligent individual who would be a totally cool human being if he would just grow the fuck up and stop clinging to easy answers. He was devoutly religious for many years. Went to church all the time, bought every religious book there was to be found, the whole nine yards. Then one day he realized it was bogus. Bullshit. Now all this was before I knew him. Met him-really like his 'normal' personality. Normal interests, normal outlook on life, all seems good.

Fast forward to one year later. Completely fucking crazy. Filled the Christian hole with New Age spirituality mumbo jumbo. He doesn't watch TV any more-just those stupid tapes. He just doesn't see it. It's insulting to anyone's intelligence. They make life out to be so simple. Just 'do this' and 'do that' and you'll be a happy zombie and get whatever you want. That's not life. Complexity and the full gamut of emotions are what makes human life beautiful and unique. Not mind vibrations and not thinking about the past or future. Humans have 'flaws'; we get angry, sad, depressed, scared, you name it. We also experience happiness, love, joy, passion and a whole lot of other emotions. There's no simple answer for how to live your life perfectly-no simple solution for clearing up depression or unhappiness.

They're just trying to make a profit and it's working. I don't fault them for that. I just wish people (who I care about) would stop succumbing to it.

Strippers hate Christmas

Work has been teh suck lately. Strippers need Christmas gifts too! I'm working this week (the week before Christmas for the calendarly retarded), so we'll see. I have a feeling it'll either be great or horrible. I noticed a lot of girls getting Xmas gifts from regulars last time I worked. These guys are so fucking delusional I almost feel bad for them. I suppose misery loves company

School is quickly approaching, and I'm in no way looking forward to it.

My lease is up in two months-time to start thinking about where I'm going to land this time.

I just ate a bunch of saltines and mini heath bars and then threw them up; I have to say that they taste way better going down than coming up.

...

Once again I'm in 'no work' mode.

Sometimes I feel like life is just a series of re-runs.

"People want life simple. They don't want complexities and nuances and uniqueness. They want a simple moral code that they can print on a 3 by 5 card and use in every situation without having to think or feel fear or hesitation." --An Amazon book reviewer

I lost my underwear...

So Wednesday night didn't go as well as planned. My VIP was not there when I showed up-which led me to sit with this young-ish guy from Jacksonville which led me to 8 or so shots of Grey Goose, which led me to the dressing room calling an ex, which led me to said ex's house...and yeah. Such an awful irresponsible stripper I am. Then I had to do the walk of shame the next morning to retrieve my keys from the club so I could get my precious car back. Not to mention the VIP did show up (late) but my drunk ass left without collecting my $200. Oh well. That was my fourth consecutive night in a row worked, so I was obviously burnt out or something.

Plus I lost my favorite bottoms in my drunken stupor.

The other night I was dancing for this guy on the floor (as in NOT in VIP) and at the beginning of my second dance he tells me "sometimes I cum a little by accident; I don't mean to and I'm sorry but it happens," after which I stepped back a good two feet and replied "no problem, baby" in my sweetest voice. Lame fucker.

There's a fine line between showing enough appreciation for my services and showing too much appreciation. Cash is my favorite form of appreciation and is infact required no matter what. Other than that an erection is acceptable-even expected in VIP-and I may internally feel somewhat disappointed if one is not achieved. Ejaculating is not ever flattering, it's just gross. So if any customers or potential customers are reading this (they're not), keep that in mind please. You'll be able to maintain the iota of respect I may have for you.

Fuck a nigga, money make me cum...

It's true.

Failure

I haven't been doing too well lately. Not in any one facet of my life, just in general. I make good money when I manage to make it in to work, but I've just not been able to go regularly for the past month or so. I went from working 4 nights a week to a mere 1 or 2 nights a week. Just enough to cover my necessary expenses.

I growing sick of the few friends I do have, but what am I supposed to do? I can't alienate myself from the few friends I do have and be completely alone. I know it would be terribly unhealthy, especially in my current state of mind.

I find myself feeling regretful and remorseful of the past. I feel like I always mess things up beyond repair. But I feel so bored if I'm not doing the very things that I later grow to regret. Where's the balance? Why do I always lash out too much...

There's nothing that I'm excited for. I'm not looking forward to anything-and it's killing me.

I'm supposed to be at work right now. I got so drunk on Sunday that I left my coat at work, I hope it's still there when I manage to get my ass in.

I am sooooooooooooo bored, and I'm out of Jager.

Blarrggghh

I skipped out on work again tonight. There are too many fucking girls and not enough customers. I know these are technically excuses, but seriously? I realize that all the girls want Christmas money, and all the men want to save their Christmas money, but that doesn't help me does it?

Last night I got drunk at work again, it's becoming a more regular activity of mine. Luckily I caught an hour VIP towards the end of the night. And get this, my VIP fell asleep. I mean it was probably more an alcohol induced passing out, but still. So I just hung out in the dressing room until the hour was up. Fantastic.

Here's to not making any money tonight!

I think about becoming a prostitute often. Probably more often than most. It seems like such a small step away from what I'm already doing. What exactly am I selling now? A sexual experience? A unrequited hard-on? A waste of money... When I think about it logically, it makes sense. I could make in one hour what I make in a night, or more. And it's all about the money, right?

I just can't do it. Not yet. I'm not good enough at sex. Clients would complain, I wouldn't have regulars, I'd be the laughing stock of the whore neighborhood. We'll see how I feel in a few months.

On another note, work was not the money saturated wonderland I was hoping it to be on Thanksgiving. I mean, you'd think Thanksgiving would be great. Few girls, lots of lonely or annoyed-by-the-family men...money all over the place. Nope. There weren't many girls, maybe 20 by the end of the night. There weren't many customers either. Mostly couples, who while generous, aren't really great for VIPs. Needless to say, I did manage to break the $500 mark without VIPs so I wasn't too bummed.

I'm getting better about money. There was a point a few months ago where I'd cop an attitude if I made less than $500. Walked out with $400 in a bad mood. I guess I've mysteriously gained some perspective because I'm feeling a lot more thankful for the money I do make these days, even if it's only $400. Maybe it's the Thanksgiving spirit in me.

The Universe..and all the delusional people in it.

So I'm sitting here watching a History Channel special about the Universe; black holes, white holes, quantum mechanics and all the like. At one point in my life I used to be insanely interested in physics-quantum physics to be exact. I was ready to go to Georgia Tech and study quantum physics for four wonderful years and solve all of the questions currently posed by physics. Anyways, the show reminds me of a movie I onced watched titled "The Elegant Universe". I think it was a special on Discovery channel or something-but it was carried by Blockbuster. Now I was always more of a book person when it came to physics, so I wasn't up on the latest and greatest physics movies. The person who suggested "The Elegant Universe" first wanted to see another movie I'd never heard of, something along the lines of 'What the Fuck do we Know'. Luckily for me Blockbuster was out of our second choice, so Elegant Universe it was.

The film was pretty decent, really. I'm not going to pretend to be an expert or anything near one concerning quantum physics, because it's fucking complicated. But this movie seemed like a pretty unbiased look at quatum physics, specificially string theory and TOE.

Now at the time I figured the person with whom I watching the film was just curious about quantum physics, much like myself. Later I figured out that he was watching this movie to confirm his own (unfortunately shared by millions of others) delusional theories of reality and destiny and other mystical bullshit. I remember him uttering phrases such as 'I knew it', and 'that's what I've always thought!' whenever they talked about small strings emitting vibrations.

Turns out he was a complete quack. Ok, maybe that's a bit harsh-but this whole new age religion/mysticism thing embracing quantum physics as proof of their crackpot theories is killing me. Turns out that's what the 'what the fuck do we know' movie was about. Greedy whack-jobs bastardizing physics to convince the naive and gullible that they create their own realities and they emit magnetic waves or something that attracts things to them. I'm not even going to delve into why this is absurd because any person with half a brain would be able to do that for themselves.

I dunno, the whole thing is so ridiculous that I have a hard time even understanding what they're trying to get across. It's no different than good ol' religion. At least religion doesn't try to explain itself using phony science.

So I hate my friends. Maybe not hate, but I'm just fucking sick of them. Mostly my 'best friend'. The best friend who wants to spend every waking moment with her stupid (ok, he is smart) boyfriend. When she's not spending time with him she's texting or calling him; or even worse, talking about how great he is and how much she loves him. What makes her think I give a flying fuck, I have no idea. I just want to scream "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" She always needs men. Ever since that golden age of puberty she's needed them. The self-esteem boost that comes with them. Then when I bitch about her codepedence she tells me I'm jealous. I'm not. I just think she's pathetic when it comes to relationships and men.

The other one is just delusional. The 'chase your dreams and live happily ever after' delusional. And she thinks I'm an idiot. My dumbass fucking friends don't realize that I'm more intelligent than them. Combine them and I'd still probably win that shit. Just because I'm a stripper and I stopped going to college I'm an idiot in their eyes. Just because I don't like art and music and liberal hippy shit I'm fucking retarded. Sorry-I don't think so. Sorry I don't have my whole future planned out.

Why can't they just entertain me when I'm bored and shut the fuck up the rest of the time?

Tori

At the end of my second shift at the club I was summoned by a young black man for a dance. He wanted a dance with me and another barely legal stripper, Tori. He liked 'young perky tits'. Tori informed me that this was her first night. It being a slow night and me being an idiot I made a comment about the night being abnormally slow. I suppose I said it to comfort her. She looked so young and I didn't want her to be depressed over the lack of money I assumed she had made.

Turns out she had years on me concerning the sex industry. Over the next couple of weeks we talked. I think we were the youngest girls there, and that helped us instantly bond. We couldn't have been more different. She was a former prostitute, high school dropout trying to escape her abusive pimp and make her own money. I was a Georgia Tech student first time stripper.

She wasn't all that bright from what I could tell, but she had a past. She was so blase about the things she had done. One night she had asked me if I would 'fuck for money'-I told her that I would consider it, but it would depend on the money. She told me it was easy. "Usually the johns are really small so you just lay there and moan, (accompanied by sex noises) and you can't even feel it. They usually finish in like, five minutes." Here was this girl, younger than myself, talking about fucking strangers for money like most people would talk about the weather.

After work sometimes I'd drive her to various hotels. Hotels that would be accommodating the fake moans and small dicks. Usually we'd eat at Waffle House beforehand, and talk about silly shit. She was a funny kid.

Sometimes I'd feel bad for her, she was very pretty, gorgeous even. She was tall and thin and I used to wonder if she could have been a model. Not that the life of a model is any better , just more glamorous on the surface.

I quit without telling her, and I haven't seen or talked to her since. I still think about her a lot, and I wonder why Tori, a relatively small part of my life, made such an impact on me.

Drunk

I just want to be in a perpetual state of drunkeness. Here are some reasons why I should consume alcohol every day, all day.

-I'm much friendlier when inebriated.

-I have a habit of taking off my clothes when under the influence-and not for money!

-I stumble around a lot, which is hopefully amusing to anyone watching.

-I have an affinity for laying down on hard gravel-y surfaces. It never fails; I always end up chilling on the pavement after downing a few (dozen) shots. I'm not really sure why this is a good thing.

-I lose any concern for my own personal safety, especially in regards to sex. Not only am I more likely to fuck strangers*, I'm more likely to go to their possibly serial killer lairs to do it. This is great news if you're a serial murderer in the Atlanta area, or just haven't been laid in a while.

*In regards to the last reason, I won't just fuck any old dude-you have to have some strange occupation or hobby that is entirely amusing to me at the time of courtship (tactful, I know). Then I will surely sleep with you just so I can later relay the stories of my wacky sexscapades to friends (and strangers).

-Less of this blogging nonsense; I'll be too busy sleeping on the concrete and fucking married divorce lawyers to partake in any of this blogging stuff.

I remember back in the days when I was attending Ga Tech I was always plotting ways that I could get drunk before heading to class. Unfortunately due to the fact that I lived off campus and had to drive to class this was difficult. I even considered paying people to drive and pick me up from class in order to fulfill this desire.

Things never did pan out-maybe if they had I'd still be there.

Atheist Republican

With the election edging closer, I figured I might as well discuss a topic I normally keep mum about.

Politics!

I'm not particularly interested in politics-and no, I don't plan on voting. I've received plenty of criticism from aquantainces on my decision to abstain from voting. Mostly I'm not voting just to piss these people off. Who knows, I may even secretly vote. The point is, if it's my right to vote, it's also my right not to.

In reality most of the people critical of me not voting should be glad I'm not voting-I would definitely vote Republican, whereas most of my friends (and people my age) are Democrats. I'm so sick of these college-aged progressive democrats with their 'vote for change-vote Obama' bumper stickers, and their 'green' clothes made of naturally grown sticks and fairly traded dirt. Fuck off.

I do have some more legitimate reasons for being a Republican (honestly I'm probably a Libertarian, but let's be real here).

-I do not think people who make a certain yearly income higher than that of 95% of the population should be forced to 'donate' a higher percentage of their income to to government to be redistributed to fucking welfare scum who don't even pay taxes. Does the middle class not realize that more than 50% of all money in circulation is put there by the top 5% of wealth holders? People who have more money spend more money. They also spend money on luxury items that are more likely to help our economy instead of cheap clothes from China or piss covered fruit from Colombia-which is what welfare recipients spend their money on (In case you didn't know). Here are some things welfare recipients don't spend their money on.
-condoms (this is critical to maintaing their lifestyle)
-classy lawn decor (worn out appliances look just as nice!)
-lap dances (cheap fuckers)
-food (they have stamps for that shit)
-belts
-clothes that fit
-televisions, ipods, various other electronic devices (they'd rather just mug/rob you. This provides them with said goods and entertainment)
-movie tickets (see above)

Wealthy people spend money on all of the above-and then some.


-I don't think health care should be made public. It's a known fact that institutions run by the government suck. The government sucks. I do not want important things-such as my life-in the hands of the incapable government. You can't afford healthcare? Too bad. I can, and I want to choose what privatized physician I attend. Just look at public schools. Awful. I mean I went to public school and look how I turned out. You want your kids to be strippers, send them to public school.

-When it comes to things such as abortion and gay marriage, well I don't really agree with the Republican outlook on these issues-but I also realize that they don't really affect me. I don't plan on marrying a woman, and I know how to properly use a condom. Sucks for you if you don't.

I suppose the main reason I'm a Republican is that I don't trust the government. That's right-I think the government as a whole is incompetent. The less control they have-the better my life is.

Now if the separation of church and state could just be adhered to...

Sanctimonious twat.

My best friend informed me tonight that her boyfriend doesn't like me. He doesn't like any of her friends. Mostly because he's a possessive, sanctimonious little twat. I can understand why he's possessive, without his girlfriend he would never get any pussy. He better hold on to that. It's her fault too. She always runs back to him. She has no shame when it comes to getting him back; she'll cry and beg at his feet, literally beg him to give her another chance. He's a smart, driven kid-and he'll go places for sure. He's a bit passive aggressive. He isn't the alpha male type but the second she does something he doesn't approve of he'll whine and guilt trip her to death. I can see him becoming physically abusive in the future, but I'm done trying to convince her that she can do better.

Why do I even give a shit? Maybe I'm afraid he'll slowly convince her that I'm a bad influence. Maybe I am. So fucking what? She's a grown woman who can make her own decisions. He thinks me being a stripper is a bad influence, but he doesn't realize that his girlfriend's a whore. Not in the literal sense-but she sleeps around. A lot. That's certainly not my fault-I could go the rest of my life without ever having sex again.

Fuck everyone.

WTF

What a shitty week.

Predators

I feel like my personality has changed since I started working as a stripper.

It's not any better, or worse, just different. I try so hard to compartmentalize my feelings. Keeping my stripper self separate from my everyday self is easier in theory than in practice. I have to be a drastically different person at work, and that identity is starting to seep into my 'real' life.

I feel more predatory. More experienced. Older. I feel like any innocence I still had has been devoured by my work. By those hungry-eyed men who try to grope and lick me behind the curtains. By the strung out girls who offer me ever-lasting white powdery energy. By the messy dressing room stocked with body spray and makeup to keep us looking and smelling like every man's fantasy. Vacuous over-sexualized dolls, wobbling around in our 6-inch heels, our taught bodies barely covered by over-priced attention grabbing outfits.

I'm a predator, all the girls are. The customers are predators. The bouncers, managers, DJs and housemoms are predators. All of us engaged in a dance. All trying to out-smart and out-scheme one another. All plastered with fake smiles and fake pleasantries.

People my own age seem younger, unrelatable.

I don't know what to do with my life. College seems distant, I can't even imagine having a real job.

I feel trapped.

Blow

Coke heads are the best customers ever. It's pretty easy to spot them, especially after talking to them. I can't even really explain the behaviors that give them away, but you just know.

Anyways, they are very easy to coherce into VIP, especially because it gives them a chance to snort their shit in private.

They'll almost always offer you some, but it's easy enough to turn down. If they're really insistent, you can just exhale instead of inhale and they never notice.

Once they're sufficiently high they usually just talk talk talk. And play with hair. Hair must feel really cool when under the influence of coke, because they all just want to play with your hair.

I wish all my customers were so easy.

Friends

Friends are just commodities. This isn't a bad thing, I really enjoy hanging out with my friends. Fuck, I usually keep friends for ages. But I also realize that friends are just people. People whose lives change, people who will eventually go their separate ways. This is just life. Friends are great when you have them, but when they (or you) move on, that's ok too. I try not to take friendships too seriously; hang out, have fun, but remember, the only person you can ever truly rely on is yourself.

slump

I've been in a slump lately... Maybe I'm burnt out. I get to work and I just want to hide in the dressing room. The thought of interacting with those men makes me sick to my stomach. I don't hate them, I just don't want to deal with them. I've barely covered my expenses this month, and that's what worries me about this job. What happens when I just decide I can't do it any more. I have nothing to fall back on. That instantaneous cash flow just stops. It's such a trap.

A trashy whore in love

How does one fall in love with someone who they've only spent two hours with? If anyone knows, please enlighten me.

I'm feeling so trashy lately. Not like there's anything wrong with trashy, but there's ' some what self-aware stripper who makes more than she should so she lounges around all day and smokes, drinks and parties all night' trashy, and then there's 'just not very bright raised in hickville sincerely sweet but dumb as a brick trashy. So what's worse, deliberately being a trashy whore or being too fucking stupid to realize you're a trashy whore?

In the end we're both just trashy whores.

Chuck Liddell

My night started out fantastically...there were about 4 girls working, and VIP offers were coming from every direction. I ended up with Chuck Liddell's best friend! I'm not really into UFC fighting or anything, but I knew that connection was a good one. It didn't hurt that it was his attorney (what's with guys bringing their attorneys to the nudie bar with them?) that pointed me out to him. It also didn't hurt that he was pretty fucking hot and had an excellent body. Oh, and the 4 jager shots and 2 vodka cranberries that I downed probably didn't hurt either. Well, besides the fact that they caused me to blow a .06, my highest score ever. Back to Mr. Liddell's buddy. I inquired if there was any way I could get an autograph or something because I'm a whore like that, and Mr. California told me he had one in his room (ha), at the Ritz (double ha), and he could leave it at the front desk for me so I could swing by and pick it up after work. Sounds good. Then we went off to VIP, where it took all my willpower to not throw caution to the wind and have crazy illegal VIP sex then and there. I have never even had the slightest urge to be sexual (in the honest sense) with any of my VIPs, but I really want(ed) to fuck this guy. Augh. After work I was feeling a bit...adventurous, so I decided to stop by the Ritz and check things out. The thing was, I had lost the little slip of paper with the guy's name and (gulp) room number, so I had no idea how to contact him. It didn't help that it was 3:30 in the morning, and I looked like a baby prostitute wearing a June Cleaver dress. The front desk lady was a bit apprehensive, mostly because all I was able to give her was a first name, and I kept asking about an autographed t-shirt. So, the outing ended in failure and disappointment, only slightly remedied by making it home and counting my $100s. Ah well.

Bayes

Working at two clubs is killing me. Especially since I like club significantly more than the other, and that happens to be the club where money is scarce. Why can't things ever be simple? Obviously I wont quit my money club, because let's face it; i'm in this industry to make money--that's it. If the money dries up, I'm out. Unfortunately there are other variables thrown into the mix that I can't discuss on here, which are chaining me to the money-less club for a bit longer.

I eat the same thing every morning (if 2:30 pm counts as the morning), this thing happens to be an egg McMuffin*. Except it's not a McDonalds brand egg McMuffin, it's one that I make on my Back to Basics toaster and egg poacher device. Now, I don't cook. Ever. I loathe it more than any other domestic chore, so me making breakfast in a cooking contraption is a big deal. Anyways, the point of this pointless spiel is that I had been using Kroger Brand english muffins, which were adequate. The other day, during my weekly Kroger run (I also HATE grocery shopping) I noticed the Kroger english muffins were all expiring in the very near future, which forced me to step out of my comfort zone and purchase english muffins of a different brand. I decided after much deliberation on Bayes, which were kept in the refrigerated section, and came in a red and white box. Well, Bayes english muffins are well worth the $1 extra they cost. Fucking delicious.

*not to be confused with the McDonalds egg McMuffin, which is delicious as well. No copyright violations here.

The Russian

Last night I worked at the 'new club' and it was such an obnoxious night.

I did learn to do one pole trick, sort of. I think I might keep going on just for that, I mean there are literally no customers, so I can practice my pole work without looking like a dork in front of money.

The one and only customer in the club last night happened to take a liking to me, which may sound like a blessing, but eh...not so much.

He was this Russian kid (ok he was 31, but you know) who got pretty drunk and thought that we were in love and that a sincere relationship was blossoming between us. He pestered me all night, and kept giving me these back massages where his finger would get dangerously close to my ass crack, and was a complete pain in the fucking ass (figuratively). I only managed to get $250 out of him, even though I saw that he had another hundred in his wallet that should have been mine. Oh well.

Way to crush my perception of Russians, which I previously felt were the most amazing people in the world.

All rolls.

So I worked at a different club this past Friday, and it was definitely an interesting experience. I haven't quit my other club or anything drastic (and I don't intend to), but there were some extenuating circumstances that I can't even discuss on here that lead to the temporary switch.

This club was a lot smaller, there were maybe 15 girls on a Friday night, as opposed to 30 or 40. The interior of the club was very nice, and clean. Probably the cleanest club I've ever set foot in. The manager was absolutely adorable and super friendly, albeit a bit skeezy. There was only one problem...no customers. From 9:00-10:30 there were maybe 3 customers total.

I spent this time sitting at the bar wishing I were anywhere but there. Finally the club started to fill up (who am I kidding, there may have been a total of 10 custies), so I got off my lazy ass and tried to make some money. I sold one 30 minute VIP, and did a few dances, and left with a grand total of $240.

I have a bad feeling that I was the highest earner of the night.

I caught some static from the other girls (for obvious reasons). I'm not sure if I just happened to work an exceptionally slow night, or if that's the norm.

Well, the club's been up my ass ever since. I've gotten numerous texts (!) and calls inquiring about whether I'm coming in or not. Fuck, the DJ practically shit his pants when I tipped him $20. I can't remember the last time I've tipped my other DJs less than $20.

Plus the girls there are a whole lotta crazy. I can't blame them, working there would cause me to go insane as well. One particularly drugged out bitch started telling me this story about a guy who shoved his dick in her mouth and came in VIP, which I'm sure was absolutely made up, but entertaining none the less. She also had the good nature to inform me that if the manager asks about drug use to only mention 'the non-addictive shit, like rolls'. Yeah, I'm sure you're really pulling the wool over his eyes. What a crazy industry.

On a better note, I'm off to Paris in 2 weeks!

Sometimes I feel like my life is a dream, punctuated by brief moments of clarity. I cannot remember the last time my system was free of alcohol, but it's not a big deal, I'm not an alcoholic. I've done so many things lately that would make my former self cringe, but I don't cringe. I don't even flinch. It's all a dream sequence, a consequence-free realm of another reality; not my reality. I go through all the motions of day-to-day life, I talk to people but the words are all meaningless, senseless, like the white noise of a broken TV. I feel like I'm not even uttering these words, they are just there, plucked haphazardly from the invisible fabric of space. These words aren't me. I'm not me.

When I was younger and something bad would happen to me, I'd always tell myself that it's only temporary. All the feelings and emotions are temporary and will eventually ebb away like the tides. But tides are cyclical and return, and when they do they carry with them a new assortment of things. New strands of wayward seaweed, new fragments of once vibrant coral, new beer bottles and grocery bags. Maybe that's how feelings are; they disappear for a short while only to return with new bags of goodies.

I'll take care of you.

Don't you just love when you sit with a guy all night who pays the dj to keep you off stage, and keeps repeating the phrase 'I'll take care of you' ad nauseum, and then at the end of your shift hands you.....$500 dollars.

Yeah, I'm taken care of, that just about covers... um....half my fucking rent.

Cheap Asshole.

Sardines.

That's it. I'm officially done working on Saturdays unless I know for a fact that Joe is going to be there. There's nothing more frustrating than a packed club (and I mean not-enough-chairs-people-standing-like-sardines-in-a-tin packed) with no money circulating. Strip clubs are NOT the place to window shop, or worse, pick up girls. You can go to your local bar and take home any number of drunken tramps who will suck your dick. For free.

I'm starting to resent the fact that people know I'm a stripper. As much as I'd like to place the blame on my friends who tell every fucking person they've ever made eye-contact with, I'm to blame as well. As interesting a conversation piece as it is, people will only see you through those stripper-tinted glasses, and it sucks. Plus I feel like I don't exactly measure up to the preconceived notions of what a stripper is.

I'm bored all the time now. No school, no day job, nada. I don't have any fascinating projects in the works, no boyfriend to waste time with, absolutely fucking nothing.

At least I have a TV.

Thank you for not being a whore.

So, I finally bought my gorgeous 42 inch LCD flat-screen TV. Hooray. I've blown (ok, it was money well spent) over $3,000 on 'new things' over the past 2 weeks. Gah, I'm starting to embrace the strippah lyfestyle I'm afraid.

Last night, after a VIP with two gentlemen and another girl, the other girl leans over the table and whispers in my ear "thanks for not being a whore in VIP, I'll work with you anytime." Then, back in the dressing room she reiterates this notion, explaining how there's a very short list of girls she'll do VIP with, and recounts some not-so-prudish group VIP experiences. I guess I'm pleased that she doesn't think I'm a whore, but aren't we all really whores. I mean, not whores in the 'gives blowjobs in the back room for $200' sense (though, we have our fair share of those too), but we're receiving pay for our sexual services, and the lines are all blurry in my mind.

Whatever.

If I've learned one thing in life it's that money is money, and that's what buys the things I like. I can't pay for a flat screen TV, or a brand new shiny red Corvette with respect.

Cut and Run

Friday night I met this guy, went back to his house (not apartment, he was...36) proceeded to NOT have sexual intercourse with him, and then snuck out at 5:00 in the morning and went back to my nice cozy bed. I really am losing all my patience for men. I just can't deal with them, and I find myself having less and less interest in wanting to spend time with them(unless I'm being paid, of course). It seems like at my age, the biggest deal is finding a boyfriend. Fuck, my roommate spends 80% of her time doing boy-hunting related things, and I just don't give a damn. I do miss sleeping in bed with someone (NOT sex), which I didn't even fucking like in the first place.

My one and only 'regular', Joe, failed to show up tonight, so that was hurtful to my stack of billz. Saturdays without regulars are like carnivals without funnel cake; they suck. And they're full of college kids with no money.

A million girls.

Holy fuck, there were a lot of girls at work tonight. Even the DJ who's been there for 7 years said it was a record breaking night in terms of pairs of boobs out on the floor. These nights generally suck for me, because let's face it; the more choices afforded to a man, the less likely he is to choose you. All things aside, I did alright.

I had my absolute favorite customer tonight. I wish every guy could follow in his footsteps. He was from South Africa, and had never been in a strip club before. Fuck, the way he reacted to me, I'm not sure he had ever even seen a naked female before. Anyways, he was amazed/terrified of me, and every other girl who danced for him. He definitely liked me the best, though (who doesn't?). He didn't even attempt to touch me, and when I would get close to him, he'd retract. Not in an insulting way, he was just really nervous and overwhelmed. Adorable. Not to mention he looked like that guy from 'Flipping Out' (that show on Bravo), whom I love and want to marry.

I'm not working tomorrow, and I'm incredibly happy about that.

Fuck this.

I hate this fucking job.

Throw your damn garbage away already.

What's with people getting back together with their exes? Are there not enough people in this gigantic fucking world that you have to resort to crawling back to something that you discarded in the first place? It seems like a phenomenon that everyone partakes in. Does it ever occur to you people that the relationship did NOT work in the first place for a reason? I don't want to hear shit about how 'people change' and 'things are different now'. Yeah, things are different. Your dumb ass has forgotten all the shit you put each other through, and your penis/vagina remembers all the great times. Once the fuzzy memories and lust filled romps wear off, you're left with the same person you couldn't fucking stand a few months/years ago. And you've just wasted another couple months/years of your life. Congratulations you dumb fuck.

Dating an ex is like going to your own garage sale and buying back all your old shit you don't want. -a wise woman.

This blog will return to stripping related posts as of tomorrow.

Lazy Ass Motherfucker

Well, I know this blog is supposed to be about stripping, but my lazy ass has made a grand total of $800 in the past two weeks! That's because I've only worked 2 days.

This is because I'm a lazy ass motherfucker. I know it may sound a little extreme, but I'm honestly the laziest person I know. Which doesn't even mean much, because I don't know many people. I'm too lazy to make friends.

I'm too lazy to get a real job.

I'm too lazy to go to 'smart person' school.

I'm too lazy to start my own business.

I'm too lazy to go out.

It's gotten to the point where I don't even heat up my food in the goddamn microwave. I don't cook my oatmeal, I just mix it some pudding (or yogurt, or coolwhip) nice and cold and raw.

I think I may actually work hard at being lazy, so maybe I'm not lazy after all.

And I've gotten fat.

I'm too lazy to smoke my fucking cigarettes.

On a completely unrelated note, what's with everyone asking me what I do, or the even more intrusive, 'are you a stripper?'

I must be emanating some sort of whore vibe now, because everyone in my general vicinity feels the need to inquire about my 'work'. Seriously, just because I'm paying cash (ok, sometimes in all $1 bills), you cannot extrapolate that I'm a stripper or God-forbid, a prostitute.

I do not look like a fucking whore goddammit.

Where's the money at?

Today I found the TV I want. It's a 42 inch Vizio flat screen. Yay. Unfortunately I haven't really been working due to a back injury (fuck me and my improper lifting technique).

I move into my beautiful new place Saturday and I'm so fucking excited.

I'm currently on the caffeine and cigarette diet, which is working out pretty well.

That's all.

My life officially sucks.

Bawling my eyes out

Today I got a call from my former roommate concerning a recent breakup between her and her boy. She informed me that she had been 'bawling her eyes out' all day at work, due to the drama surrounding the breakup. Now, she uses this phrase a lot, I'm not sure if she means it literally, or if it's just her way of expressing an overall mood of sadness.

As I was trying my hardest to empathsize with her, it got me thinking back to the last time I cried. Now I don't cry very often. As a matter-of-fact, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've cried since the age of 7.

When people around me cry, it makes me feel very uncomfortable, so I would assume that me crying in front of others would have the same effect. Hence I try my damndest to never cry in the company of others.

I last cried about 3.5 months ago. I was laying in L's bed, groggily awake. He had just gotten up to go to the kitchen or something. When he came back to bed he kissed my arm. An overwhelming feeling of dread took over me, and I started to cry. Reflecting back, it seems so ridiculous. I'm assuming he had no idea of my little mini-breakdown, as he thought I was asleep. I can't really explain why such a deluge of tears burst forth at this little insignificant gesture. Maybe it was because I knew that I could never emotionally fulfill him or anyone else. Maybe it was because I knew he was just doing it out of habit, something he probably did with his ex-girlfriend, and didn't even think twice about it. Maybe I was afraid it was symbolic of something greater, more dangerous and uncharted.

To this day I still don't know.

All I know is I haven't cried since.

187 = 136

Somehow I only received $136 of my $187 half hour VIP. I hate credit cards and the stupid club policies concerning them. 10% service charge, 10% to the DJ, 10% to the house. I'm left with nothing. Then of course I have to tip the house and the DJ again at the end of the night. I hope they buy some new fucking decor with all that money, cause theirs sucks.

I did pretty well for a Monday, over $600. I guess I should be excited about that, but I can't say that I am.

I should probably get a real job to help me realise just how much money that is for one measly night of work.

Pussy of the century

I didn't do as well tonight as I had hoped. I topped out at $600 and change, which makes my 3-day weekly total a measly 1346, instead of 1500. Oh well, I'll try harder next week. I guess I made my living room this week, so when I put it in perspective it's not so bad.

I did two 30 minute VIPs, which went pretty well. Joe, who spent $570 on me in VIP last week only coughed up $200 this week. Joe respects my boundaries, even though he complains that I'm stingy, which basically means I'm not a whore. He did start to mention taking me out to dinner, which scares me. If he continues I might have to put him out to pasture, so to speak.

My second VIP customer was this crazy drunk Cuban. He must have asked me to perform every illegal act in VIP I could think of. Now, technically the rules in VIP are the same as the rules on the floor, which means no contact whatsoever, but that's just not realistic. What goes on is pretty much up to the discretion of the girl. Here's a list of questions Mr. Cuba must have memorized before heading to VIP.

1) Can I kiss you on the mouth with tongue.
-Absolutely not. That's unsanitary, and frankly just gross.

2) Can I lick your nipples.
-Let's just say I said yes to this. If a girl in VIP allows you to lick her, she's also allowed every other guy she's been in VIP with to do so as well. So, you're not only getting the delicious taste of sweat covered stripper skin, you're getting Bob's, John's, and Mark's dried saliva as well. Yum. Next question.

3) Can I finger/lick your pussy.
-Dude, it's $150. Get real.

4) Can I jack off/will you jack me off.
-Sure (to #1), in the comfort of your own fucking home. You can even think of me when you do it, just don't come back Monday and tell me about it.

Now there are some more, but I'll save those for later.

Before Mr. Cuba left, he also dropped the golden line "You have the pussy of the century."

What a charmer.

Shaking

I had an awful night at work on Friday.

I had the bright idea of buying some caffeine pills, you know, because I'm too chicken to snort coke off the toilet seats at work. So I took 2 before work (400 mg worth). I figured they would make me peppy and friendly. Well a few seconds into dancing for my first customer of the night, he commented that I was shaking. I was, and at that point I realized maybe controlled substances aren't the best way to make it through the night. I was so worried I was going to pass out on main stage, my knees kept collapsing beneath me, and I was breaking out into a cold sweat. I rested a little, and somehow managed to make it through the lame excuse for a night.

I also ran into two guys I went to high school with, and to my surprise they knew who I was. One of them won the title of Homecoming King junior year. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

People under the age of 30 suck, at least in the strip club environment, or any environment where the exchange of money for goods and services is concerned. After I sit and talk with you for nearly an hour, don't hand me a fucking dollar and expect me to get down on my knees and suck your dick. It's a dollar, you didn't fucking make my night. Fucking kids.

I stopped by Waffle House after work; it's a new tradition of mine. Unfortunately it was pretty busy (at 4:30 in the morning), which always makes me feel awkward. Especially when there are crowds of young people. I'm in my street clothes (obviously), but my face is caked with stale looking make-up, and I smell like a homeless shelter, or what I imagine a homeless shelter smells like, seeing as I've never set foot in one.

When I got home I was hit with an intense wave of depression, which I'm guessing was caused by the various substances in my system, which were wearing off. I popped two sleeping pills and dozed off to an infomercial about a quick cooking convection oven.

My new living room

I bailed on work tonight. Here is my future living room! (couch, ottoman, lamps) http://www.roomstogo.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=showRoom&roo_id=4048

Mondays

You know it's a bad night when half the girls can't even pay their tip-out at the end of the night. It was exceptionally slow, and exceptionally cold. I had pretty much given up by 3:00 and was out of there by 3:30.

Luckily I did make enough to tip out, and reached my (week) nightly goal of $400. I'm working four days a week now, seeing as I have NO social life, I might as well be at work making money.

I'm starting to make 'friends' with the staff, which really is important in this industry. Having people recommend you to big spenders is always helpful.

I think this whole job is starting to click with me now. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding people, especially men. I used to find it impossible to believe that men actually get turned on during a lap dance. It seems so artificial, so unsexy to me. My sales skills suffered because of that ridiculous notion. Now, I realize that receiving a dance is not an arousing experience for every single man, but for the majority of them it is. This fact alone has helped me immensely.

I don't know. I'm making more money than I ever have, more than college educated professionals with actual credentials. I can afford the $1,000 leather couch and $800 flat screen TV that I want. I can afford to get my hair and nails done. When I come home and count my money I get this intense high: green and papery between my fingers, with the smell of stale smoke and cheap Victoria's Secret body spray lingering on every bill. Then I quietly pack those lovely pieces of paper in an envelope, their temporary holding cell, until they find themselves in the prison that is my bank account. But I realize that this is not happiness, at least not the happiness that I watch other people partake in.

It's just consuming.

Fire or Ice

I did well on Saturday. I walked out with more than $800. Sadly, it was the perfect stereotypical night of a stripper.

It started out with a half hour in VIP with a customer with whom I've been in VIP before. He's got a drug problem, is a whoremonger, and can be less than pleasant in VIP. I really wanted to make money, so I put up with him.

Then he wants another hour with me and another girl. At $400/hr, how can I say no. It's always easier to do VIP with another girl because the attention is on how you interact with her, rather than how you interact with the customer.

I did about seven dances for one guy who kept trying to get me to stick my nipple in his mouth.

The best (or worst) part of my night happened around 2:00. I was lounging around the stairs to the upstairs VIP when suddenly a waitress (who looks like skeletor) asks me if I want to go to VIP. "Uhh, sure",then I'm whisked upstairs with two gentlemen and another girl.

This other girl is one I've noticed since my first day working. She's exactly what a stripper should look like. She's got the huge fake breasts, the bleached blonde hair, the surgically enhanced face, the expensive yet tacky stripper outfits, the nails, and the squeaky, bitchy stripper voice. I also notice that she never comes in before 12:00. Meaning that she's paying $200 in late fees every night. And she only gets 3-4 hours to work. I always (naively) wondered how she made any money. Now I know.

Now, I like to think that strip clubs aren't as bad as they're made out to be. In my stripper world there's no rampant drug use, prostitution, blow jobs in VIP, etc. It's just good clean fun (ok, so maybe I'm exaggerating).

Well the reality is, this stuff does go on. I know this deep down, and have since day one. There's coke, blow jobs, pimps, johns, dealers, sometimes all at once.

Soon after we get up to VIP, blondie asks me if I party. I don't. At least she doesn't ask me if I'm a narc, like the last girl who wanted to party in VIP with me. She pulls out some baggies of coke and crack, and asks her customer if he wants fire or ice. I don't remember his answer. I think he takes the coke. Blondie and her customer snort a few lines off an ashtray. 'My customer' is the cab driver. This is hilarious and sad to me. We talked about the usual; school, work, hobbies, whether or not he can touch my pussy. I find out I was only needed for a half hour, at the end of which blondie gets one of her friends (who I've never seen before) to take my place. I can tell her friend parties a little too much. As I leave I hear the cab driver ask for some fire (crack). These are the people we rely on to drive our drunken selves home safely.

At this point it's the end of the night, so I collect my VIP money and head to the dressing room. I have a few Club bucks (about $20 worth), which I don't even bother cashing it because it's not worth the time and energy it takes to walk to the office.

Money is just that disposable when you make $800+ in a night.

Single

Tonight will mark my fourth consecutive night worked.

I'm unsure of how to feel about this. On one hand, I'm proud that I've been able to make it in all (soon to be) four days. Even though Wednesday and Thursday weren't up to par. On the other hand I'm depressed over the fact that work is my social life. It's either go to the club or sit at home and watch family guy by myself.

A lot of my customers are married men, in fact, I'd say the majority of them are. Married men are usually pretty easy; they're just happy to see someone significantly younger than they are naked. They generally don't try and burden me with their emotional baggage, and realize that any 'connection' formed in a strip club is founded on a completely superficial basis.

Unfortunately last night was like a single man buffet. There was one in particular who was really intent on draining me. He insisted on crying, I mean tears streaming down his face, over some girlfriend who left him. Six months ago. He was 43. I suppose lonliness knows no age, and it was evident he was just very lonely. He did pay me well for my therapy sessions, and I didn't get naked for him once.

Matter of fact, I barely danced at all last night, yet I still managed to make $450. Not great, but for the amount of energy expended, not too shabby.

Speaking of money, I think this job really distorts my perception of it. When I come home with less than $400, I'm disappointed. While being motivated and driven to make as much dough as possible is a good thing, $400 is a lot of money. Hell, $300 is a lot of money. Most people my age would be thrilled to make $35-$55 an hour, but I don't think twice of it. Once I leave this industry and enter the real world I'm going to be in for a rude awakening.

New Place

I found somewhere to live. And I've blown off work for the second night in a row. Yay.

Lazy

I was supposed to work tonight, but that's not gonna happen. There's always tomorrow for naked debauchery!

I did work on Saturday, and I feel disappointed and pleased about the outcome. I did make over $500. Which is good. I could have made more. Which is bad. For some reason the stars were aligned just right as to make everyone want to spend some time in VIP with me. Unfortunately, they were also aligned in the same manner for the other girls working, resulting in an obnoxiously long waiting list. We're talking hours here.

Luckily I did my first VIP (an hour) early in the night before the gates were stormed. The guy kept asking me the raunchiest questions, and I gave him appropriately raunchy (and completely fabricated) answers. It was all easy enough.

I had at least two other VIP requests, neither which materialized due to the damned list. Both guys got sick of waiting (understandably) and left. I was able to drain a little money from them in the mean time.

Saturdays are probably my favorite day to work, because the club is packed. Less bullshitting, more dancing. While I am an expert bullshitter, it does drain me, even more so than cavorting around in 5 inch heels all night.

Today I deposited my week's earnings in my checking account. Handing the teller a stack of 20s, with some 100s thrown in for good measure, is always fun. Behind their friendly veneer, you know they're thinking 'oh, so she's a little whore', or 'maybe it's time I start thinking about getting a second job'.

There's probably a sad little indian man at the club right now wondering where his sweet little stripper is, as I told him I'd be in tonight. We were supposed to do a VIP and (I just love this) discuss a future lunch date. Obviously this lunch date would never happen, as I'd rather sit in my apartment and listen to my roommate's insufferable bird screech, than hang out with this sad little man.

I don't understand guys who go to a strip club to look for dates. Really? It's a strip club, not a fucking girlfriend store.

To my loving customers: YOU DO NOT WANT TO DATE ME. I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK I AM. EVERY SOUND WAVE THAT LEAVES MY MOUTH AND ENTERS YOUR EARS IS A LIE. YOU ARE NOT HANDSOME, I DONT LIKE HAVING SEX 30 TIMES A DAY, YOUR COLLECTION OF ANTIQUE STAMPS IS NOT, I REPEAT, NOT INTERESTING. PLEASE JUST LOOK AT MY BOOBS AND MAKE CRUDE COMMENTS. THAT IS ALL.

No new couch for me.

So, I got my first sugar daddy offer. Well, less of a sugar daddy offer and more of a "have sex with me once a week and I'll pay you well for it" offer. The guy was pretty obnoxious in VIP, so he's not really the ideal person for this sort of thing. Matter of fact, I felt like I was at the gynecologist the entire time. I guess I'd prefer that to feeling like I'm at the petting zoo dressed in grass flavored newspaper.

Lickers are the worst. Not only for me, but for themselves. They have no idea where I've been. And do they really think it's enjoyable for me? They must, because they act so surprised and offended when I tell them that they're going to have to keep their tongues in their mouths.

Honestly, it's a lucrative deal. If I could get $500 for one hour of sex once a week, that's not bad. Too bad I'm not willing to face prostitution charges and federal prison for an extra 500 a week. An extra 500 that could buy me a new couch, or flat screen TV. Fuck.

I'm so very excited about moving into a one bedroom apartment. I adore my roommate, but she's a pig. I'm pretty sure there are fruit fly larvae in a pan that she left of the stove. And there's some pretty furry spaghetti in the fridge. It's really mind-boggling to me because I know her parents and they're the cleanest people I've ever met.

I have work tonight and I really want to break the $500 mark. For some completely irrational reason $500 just seems like a lot of money as opposed to $450 or even $480. Half a grand for 6 hours of work just seems extravagant and I love it.

Too bad I've been hovering around the $350 mark for the past week. And its not due to lack of customers.

Hustle

I'm not a hustler. I want to be, but I'm just not there yet.

I want to be one of those girls that goes in knowing she'll leave with at least $500; regardless of the circumstances. I want to be one of those girls who can drain a man of all his money with a few well placed lines and giggles. I want to be one of those girls who knows after 5 seconds of conversation just how much she can get out of her customer.

I am not one of those girls. My money is inconsistent. Sometimes I'm charming and witty, sometimes I'm myself. I waste hours on customers who have nothing. I get nervous before work, unsure if I'll even make enough to pay tip-out. If I do make good money, I'm estatic over it, and then I rationalize missing my next two shifts because of it.

Maybe I'm just not cut out for this job.

Brass Poles

Saturday was my first night back. Back into the chaotic and lovely world of strippers. The new club seems promising, as far as number of customers, but the quality of said customers is not what I'm used to.

I was a mediocre stripper last night. My hustle was weak, but luckily the party atmosphere of the club made it impossible not to sell dances.

The other girls pretty much ignored me (thankfully), and management seems fine. It's interesting how clique-y strip club employees can be. I suppose it's like that at any workplace, but I can't really say seeing as I've never held a 'normal' job long enough to notice.

The poles are a goldish brass color, which I kind of hate. They also don't extend all the way to the ceiling, making them seem unstable. Not like I can do any pole acrobatics or anything, but I'm concerned for the other girls' well being.

The best part about working again is the money. Even though I did far from well, I still made more in my single night of titty shaking than my roommate makes in a week. Not like it's a contest or anything...Those crisp, or folded length-wise, dollar bills just make me so happy.

Another nice thing about this club is the lack of fixed schedules. At the last club I worked at we had to determine our schedule (3 days minimum) a week in advance, which frankly pisses me off. If I wanted to work on a schedule, I'd go work at the fucking post office.

I'm a working girl (again).

So, I got a job. Which means I got a permit. An 'adult entertainers permit'. Momma would be so proud.

My little stint in Florida was great. The girl I went with is really laid back, which is a nice change of pace from what I'm used to. She didn't want to go chase boys the whole time, unlike some other friends of mine. My cell phone did end up getting dropped into the hottub, and she did drunkenly dial almost everyone on my contacts list, but it was ok because I was wasted.

My mom had her graduation this past Saturday, I'm really proud (and envious) of her. I mean, she didn't really need to go back to college, but I guess she was feeling unfulfilled or something. Her whole family, which is HUGE, came, so that was a bit chaotic. Luckily I was able to slip out early.

The reason I left early is because I got a call from L concerning camping or hiking or something. I couldn't really hear what he was saying due to phone problems and tons of little kids running around. Regardless, it was just the out I needed.

We did end up camping, which went alright, but it rained the on and off the whole time, so we couldn't really do much. He tried to have sex with me AGAIN, even after his whole "we're just friends" shit, and the newfound definition to our 'relationship'. Whatever. Guys are so fucking stupid sometimes. I reminded him that he has a girl whom he loves in Texas, and that he should start practicing failfullness now. He spouted off some crap about how they're not back together yet and long distance relationships. Often times when people talk about things I couldn't care less about, I tune out.

My roommate, Z, hasn't been around lately due to her demanding job as assistant manager at a pool. We keep making these plans to go out and then she (sometimes me too) falls asleep and we go nowhere.

This guy who lives in my apartment complex keeps calling and texting me to make plans, and I just don't want to hang out with him. I mean, I'm a pretty blunt person but I can't just say "Hey, I don't like you as a person and you're too fucking short, so fuck off".

So, I got a job at a new club, this one looks more promising. When I walked in, the girl at the front desk asked to see my ID to confirm that I was of age (18). I expertly plucked my ID from my wallet and handed it over. She looked at it for a few seconds, and then said "Oh, so you just turned 21, huh?" Fuck. I'm not 21. I handed her my fake ID. Smooth move on my part. I just giggled and asked her if I could give her my other ID. She was cool with the whole situation and all was well. I mean really, what other job could you apply for, hand them a fake ID, admit your mistake, and still get hired?

Getting my permit was quite a hassle. I had to wait at the permit/court records office for TWO hours. And I'm pretty sure I was the only white person there. And the only person with a clean record. Not that the two are correlated or anything. Now that I think about it, two skanky looking white girls did walk in at the end of hour one, both applying for stripper permits. My permit even had a picture. How classy am I?

I have less than a month to find myself a place to live. I know that waiting 'til the last minute is a poor idea, but I just don't feel like dealing with this right now. I'm so fucking lazy.

Blue Mustang

So last night I did something that I swore I would never do. I met someone off craigslist. It went surprisingly well. I put up an ad for a movie date (in the strictly platonic section, I might add), but after reading through the various responses I decided I was not infact ready to get acquainted with any of the avaliable suitors.

The next morning when I checked my email, there was one that caught my attention. Some guy had an extra concert ticket due to a flaky friend, and didn't want to go solo. I happen to love concerts, so it was a no brainer. Plus this guy was able to spell words such as enjoy, amphitheatre, directions, and many others!

When I walked into our designated meeting place, a little restaurant, I was surprised that he was actually quite attractive and wasn't wielding a knife. Well, I was a little disappointed about the knife thing, I do love a me a good psycho. He was a little older than I expected (35), but I was probably a little younger than he expected as well.

Next thing I know I'm laying on the grass looking up at the sky listening to REM play songs that I'd never heard before. Then I'm flying down the freeway in a shiny blue mustang at over 100 mph. Soon I'm in my pool at 2:00 am swimming around discussing exponential increases in population with a 35 year-old stranger.

The best part of the whole night is that he just left. It was beautiful. There were no awkward attempts at sex, or stilted conversations about emotions. He fell asleep on the couch, me in my bed, and the next morning when I awoke he was gone, leaving no evidence of his short stay other than a red bull can. It can't get any better than that.

And tomorrow I leave for Florida for a week. Life is good.

You have a fucked up eyebrow

My night had started out pretty lame. I think I had accumulated a grand total of about $70. I was trolling for fresh meat when an older but distinguished looking gentleman pulls me aside. He's there with a friend from Texas, who's in a wheelchair, and he'd like me to dance for his friend. I give a decent, but not extraordinary dance and distinguished men hands me a $20. Dances here are $10 a song, so when I get $20 I usually ask if they need change and hope they say no. He not only says no, he starts inquiring about VIP. Score. He wants me to find another pretty, young, and fully shaven girl for his crippled friend. I acquiesce and look around, but all the girls I would usually go to aren't working. I head up to the dressing room to look for the lucky girl who gets to go to VIP with me. Its slim pickings in the dressing room, but I don't want to take too long so I grab a cute girl who's eating soup and hope I can sell them on her. When I bring her down to their table I can tell they're a little disappointed in my choice. "She's soooo cute!" I coo as I give her boobs a little squeeze. We finally get things worked out and head to VIP.

Turns out cute girl isn't as clean as I would have thought. While she's giving Texas a handjob through his pants, I'm trying to distract the gentleman hoping he won't expect the same from me. Luckily I do a pretty decent job, and he tells me about his son, who's brilliant as evidenced by some politically centered text messages gentleman shows me written by his boy. Of course he goes to a super expensive private school in the area, and I know gentleman must live in one of those mansions only a few minutes from the club. I can soon tell that gentleman's growing restless, as he starts asking me to kiss him (on the mouth), and let him rub my oh-so-smooth pussy.

Then he suddenly looks at me and tilts his head. "You have a fucked up eyebrow," he says nonchalantly. While I know what he's referring to, I wouldn't go as far as to say my eyebrow is fucked up. It's unique and lends character to my otherwise perfect face. He starts to obsess about it. He tells me to go to the dressing room and fetch him some tweezers so he can operate on my wayward brow. As much as I do not want this 60-something year old man near my face with tweezers, I'm so amused by his little eyebrow obsession that I humor him and go on a scavanger hunt for some tweezers. There are none to be found, so I return empty handed, figuring that this will be the end of this little diatribe. I'm wrong. He calls his limo driver and tells him to buy him a pair of tweezers. At 1:00 in the morning. Limo driver obeys, and arrives back with the dainty silver tool in about 20 mintues. Shit. I allow gentleman to pluck maybe 3 or 4 hairs and then look in the mirror. I look the same. "Oh wow! That does look so much better," I say with far too much enthusiam. He looks at me and tells me I should see a professional to get them fixed and thinned a little. I tell him that I'll definitely look into it.

It's the end of hour number two, and he informs me they have to go. Cripple pays cute girl what he owes her, and gentleman pays me what he owes me plus $100. Cute girls whines a little about how she worked a lot harder than I (very true), but Texas doesn't cough up the extra $100.

As I drive home that night I smile. If you had asked me 6 months ago if I thought I would ever be completely naked lying on a leather couch having a man older than my father pluck my eyebrows I would have laughed. Now all I can do is smile.

Bored on a Thursday.

So it's a Thursday night and I'm bored out of my mind. Z is out of town. All 3 (ha ha) of my friends are out of town. L, who confuses the hell out of me is also out of town. I almost want to get tarted up and head out to a local bar with my shitty fake ID which I don't even need. Find a guy. Have sex. Sex is so confusing for me. When I'm having it I don't like it. Well, that's not exactly true. I only like it if I know the person I'm fucking doesn't like me. When I'm not having sex, I want it. Crave it, if only for the reassurance and feelings of acceptance it grants me. I think when I start making money again I'm going to see a psychiatrist.

I'm thirsty. I should go to the gas station down the road and get a drink. The manager, if he's working, doesn't make me pay for my drinks. Maybe I look pitiful. I've gotten quite skinny. I just don't feel like buying food, and my funds are low. Tomorrow I'll have to go to the club and get a job. I dread that part. The fear of rejection is devestating to me. They hired me before, so they should hire me again, right? Times are tough right now. The economy is shit and I know that strippers are probably paying the price. Oh well. We'll see tomorrow.

Life is Beautiful

So I'm feeling a lot better today. I guess it doesn't really take me that long to get over stuff. I called the club I plan on working at and they told me to come in after 8:00 and talk to the night shift manager. I've actually been hired at this club before, but I didn't take the job because I needed to get a 'stripper license', and at the time I didn't want to have my dancing on record. Oh how things have changed. I'm actually kind of excited about dancing again, even though it's only been two months since I last quit. I did like the job, it was just the people (fellow employees, management, and some customers) that made it hard sometimes. I almost wish I had never quit. The club I was at was decent, and I made decent money there.

I have to get the fuck out of here in a month and a half, and I have no idea where I'm going. I keep toying with the idea of just leaving the country for a few months (I'd probably head to England) just to get away from everything. Or maybe I'll just move to another state. I dunno. I think I need to start going out more and socializing so I can make some friends, because all of mine are disappearing one by one.

A Beginner at This

So I'm new at this whole blogging thing. I used to scoff at people who had blogs and myspace and facebook and livejournal. Who the fuck cares about you and your boring life full of boring little activities. They think everything they experience is so damn interesting and unique when in reality there are thousands of people experiencing the exact same fucking things. Anyways, I'm a little less bitter now about the whole blogging trend, and even in those times of loathing I always found myself reading some blog about someone's latest meal at Red Lobster or something.

So I decided that I should start my own blog that no one will most likely read unless it accidentally pops up in an obscure google search or something.

Well, I am 20 years old, and at the moment have no life. Really. I just dropped out of college, after three years of fuddling about, switching my major to whatever subject I had read about in yesterday's newpaper that seemed interesting. I had no friends at college, and towards the end of my second year began to attend class less and less, until I got to the point where I would only attend one of each of my classes a week.

I live with my roommate, who I'll call Z., but only for another month and a half. I've known her since middle school, and we get along alright. She got a job about a month ago and I hardly see her anymore, so we're pretty distant at the moment. She is almost the exact opposite of me, driven, outgoing, social, and boy-crazy.

Boys. Well I never really had relationships, until recently (more about that later). Up until that point my longest realtionship had been about four days. And that was because I was on vacation and I just hung out with (and had sex with) the guy for those four days. Other than that it's been only one-nighters for me. Until about five months ago when I met this guy on New Year's Eve. I was following my usual M.O. of meet, bring home, fuck, discard and things seemed to be going according to plan until we got to the fuck part. According to said guy, who I'll refer to as L., he had had a little too much to drink and little L. was in no way, shape, or form going to rise to the occasion. Whatever, I don't like sex that much anyway, so we just went to sleep. I was supposed to visit my mother the next day, so I woke L. up early so I could drive him home. This ritual of driving random guys home was not new to me and my roommate, and the familiarity of it all was comforting. So, I pull up to his complex and then he drops the bomb. "So what's your number?". Fuck fuck fuck. Why does this always happen to me. I give my roommate a questioning look and she half-nods at me, indicating she thinks I should do it. I mull it over for a second, and then remember that L. told me he was a computer science graduate and I was taking computer science that semester, so maybe I could get him to do my homework or something. I recite my cell phone number robotically, and then drive off. Z and I stop at Taco Bell on the way home (also part of the ritual) and that's that.

A week goes by and I have all but forgotten L. Then I get home from my first day of school and I notice I have a text message. From L. A fucking text message? Really? Can't even give me a decent call like a normal fucking human being and not a socially awkward teenager? I text back that my texts aren't free so he needs to call if he wants to talk. Hopefully he takes this as a sign that I'm a fucking bitch and I don't want to be booty-texted. He says he'll call later, and he does. He invites me to a hockey game the next night, and having never been to a hockey game before, I agree to go.

Well a few weeks and a few hockey games later, we're still talking. Odd. I still hadn't slept with him, and he only helped me on one of my assignments. I'm not really sure about the whole situation, as L is 10 years my senior (though oddly naive in so many ways), and I don't really know what I want out of the whole thing. Well two months go by and I finally agree to sleep with him (regrettably), which was lame on my part. For some reason I just can't get into sleeping with someone who I've known for more that a few hours. We hang out 3-4 times a week, not really a couple, but sorta-kinda dating.

Well 5 months goes by and I can tell he just doesn't like me that much, and I can't really blame him. I'm an asshole, I pretend (and do a VERY good job) like I don't give a shit about him or anyone else. I can tell he still likes his ex, whom he dated for two years, and had broken up with a week before I met him (I know, I was the dreaded rebound, and a shitty one at that). Only at this point do I realise I kind of like this guy, though not in a relationship-y way, and I fucked it up. Or maybe I don't really like him at all, but he helped alleviate my seemingly ever-present boredom. Either way, fuck.

After an awkward night of watching a fight at Hooters I call him and ask what's going on. He tells me that he just doesn't like me because he feels like I don't like him, and yadda yadda yadda. Luckily I'm not the dumb bitch some people think I am, and I'm able to see through all these excuses. I know that he wants to end things (that never existed in the first place) because he loves his (less attractive, less intelligent (we're talking IQ of a sea slug here), less emotionally distraught and unstable) ex-girl friend. I just feel sort of empty (apathetic?) after this little talk, in which he also tells me he doesn't even consider me a friend. Oh what-fucking-ever.

Why does everything have to be defined and categorized. Can't people just do what they're doing without over thinking every fucking thing?

I ask him to come over, just to see if he will, and he does. I know it's completely over at this point, and don't really want to think about it because I'm off for the Virgin fucking Islands the next day!

Well after my 7 day absence I come home. I wait for a call from L, you know, just to confirm that I am home safely, but it never comes. I could be floating in the Atlantic ocean missing all my extremities for God's sake. I wait for it the next day...no dice. Finally the next evening I call him to see what's going on, but he doesn't answer. Shit. This fucker doesn't even give a shit about me. Oh well. I haven't talked to him since.

So, I only have one thing left to talk about, and that's work. Right now it doesn't exist. I'm living off savings. Savings I earned by dancing. Naked. Yup. So I quit about a month and a half ago for some stupid reason and sort of regret it. I'm in the process of getting a job now though, because the money is running out. In matter-of-fact, I called a titty bar earlier today and they're hiring so I'll head in later this week, once this herpes blister gets the fuck off my face.

I've written a fucking novel already, but this is my first post so I had a lot to cover.