Man, sometimes -- not often, but sometimes -- this job is so retardedly easy it almost kind of sucks. Seriously, like taking candy from a baby. Which is not strictly the most ethical thing one can do, although candy is bad for babies and you can rationalize anything.
Like, sometimes it's as easy as walking into the bar in a t-shirt and jeans and throwing a casual smile at the guy sitting by the bar, not really even seeing his face, but he is the only person there more or less, and you are trying to get into the swing of smiling at people, and WHOOMP, that is totally it. By the time you are suited up and ready to roll, that guy -- a jug-eared thirty-something surveyor who has injured his shoulder and is temporarily dismissed from his job, with time to kill and the proceeds of a freshly-cashed worker's compensation check in his pocket which he is absolutely positively bound and determined to blow on somebody or something RIGHT NOW -- is hunting for you high and low. He likes your eyes and your smile and your dress and your shoes and your laugh and your ponytail and if there is any way he could buy two dances from you at once and thus spend money on you even faster, he would be doing it. (You have a twinge of conscious about taking his money, but it is simply and literally the truth that if it weren't you it would be any some one of these other girls, so what the hell.)And every time he gets up to go to the bathroom or you walk across the room to get some water there is some other guy, like maybe a bearded employee of the forrestry service, who is tapping you on the shoulder and asking if he can't get oh, maybe just one or two dances from you really quick until eventually you are palming the first guy off on friends of yours because you have so many customers lined up waiting for you that it's getting ridiculous. And then you tip all the staff a million dollars and everybody loves you and you come home and have a slice of pie.
If I could, I would french myself right now. Goddamn. Nothing cures the wintertime blues like a crisp stack of C-notes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Welcome back, little rodeo clown. Yep the heifers are still pulling bucks and semen from the dysfunctional bulls steers, et al.
You are approaching an inflection point in your life, Grace. I always love to challenge the bright and almost bright with the old "turn that laser like intensity on yourself and see what sloughs off.' love does not mean only service, tru love does not mean sacrifice. but you are young and i am old.
You live in a world of makebelieve, as most of us do. But you are poignantly honest in your insights. and as I saw tonight, you are personally poignant with yourself. There are still princes and ladies, despite these comments added by others to your words. Poisoned people can't help but spill out what is in them.
I leave with one other person's thoughts: "Work forms the worker." Again, inflection point, beautiful one. Just check the trajectory of your life, and change it if needed. A little more to wind, or closer to that star. I hope to know you better. and yes, I want to protect you, but not because you are Grace the perfect stripper. There are more good people in the world than this audience believes and not every offer of compassion is an attempt to get laid.
My tender thoughts with you
and yes of course, that is Joel, just some guy randomly plucking chords on life's guts. My email at home is jculpepper1@austin.rr.com. Grace, don't want anything from you. For you? As many dreams as you like, and for them to come as close to true in this swirling stream. you expressed concern about me reading your blog. You may not believe it, but I won't anymore. Your thoughts, your privacies, I'll won't stare through the open window of your electronic house anymore. Drop me a line when you like or give a call. Like calls to like, but that doesn't mean you have to answer the call. Peace.
Hello, you. Thanks for offering to withdraw your readership -- don't beleive you for a minute, though. It's OK. I'm going to read yours.
XO,
G
Post a Comment