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.