Tuesday, May 30, 2006

shut up, please

If I could have any super-power, it would be the power to exit gracefully from boring conversations. This would be useful not only at the bus-stop, where I regularly get cornered by homeless gentlemen and lunatics, but also at work. Take Sunday night f'rinstance. Twice I allowed myself to be mired in conversations, tar-baby style; every polite verbal wiggle away seems to suck me deeper in, despite my best effort. Getting away is harder than gift-wrapping a live octupus. Some are worse than others, of course. The roughneck biker who wanted to shoot a grizzly bear so we could make love on it's pelt was kind of a hoot. The fortyish Renaissance Fair dude going on about his magickal bardic powers and his descent from the kings of Sco'land was just basically boring the shit out of me -- a fact which his self-proclaimed powers of empathic precognition apparently did not pick up. I finally just stood up, smiled, and started to walk away in the middle of a sentence. "That's right, child," sez the Bard. "You must be careful lest you find my words too intoxicating."

I don't make this shit up, homies. I don't have to.

Saturday, May 27, 2006


Do you remember that part in the Matrix where Keanue Reeves wakes up in the vat of slime and wires? Yeah, I think the movie's over-rated, too, but that scene described my present state pretty well. I hit 'send' yesterday afternoon and Freelance Project #1 went winging away to the mothership. I pushed my chair back from my desk and stood up for what seemed like the first time in four or five days, turn around and saw myself in the hallway mirror. The real me, with the messy hair and the bitten fingernails, farmer's tan, unshaved legs, dark streaks under eyes, hangdog face of misery. I've got 24 hours to turn myself back into a stripper. Let the games begin!

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

strippers 1, bikers 0

Gnarly Tattooed Biker Guy at strip club bar, when politely asked if Our Heroine might join him for a beer: "Whatever. If you want to. I don't care."

11:15 pm: "I don't have a girlfriend" -- no, I didn't ask -- "Women can't accept my priorities. I tell them my son comes first, my bike comes second, my job comes third. If they're lucky, they might come in ahead of my truck. I like that truck, though."

11:17 pm: "I don't need women. If I wanted to listen to bullshit, I'd turn on the TV."

Seconds later: "You can dance now, if you want to."

11:45 pm: "I bet you're a hot fuck. Keep dancing"

11:46 pm: "Have you ever been on a bike?"

11:48 pm: "What I need is someone I can travel with. Someone I can just call up and say, 'Hey, we're going to Mexico.' Someone who wouldn't ask me how long we're gonna be gone, cause I'm like that, you know. I don't live by a schedule. I go where I wanna go, when I wanna go. God, you're beautiful. What nights did you say you work again?"

Game. Set. Match. Score one for the strippers, and g'night.

Saturday, May 06, 2006


I am an immature retard who spends too much time online.
Look what I found!

Hint: Read the reviews section. It makes it all more real, somehow.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006


My fetish boots came today. They are beautiful, but too small. I must have accidentally ordered in kids' sizes. Fortunately, I got them wicked cheap, so I can turn right around and sell them at the club, no loss.

If I ever get back to the club, that is. And I would really like to, not least because I have something like $500 of uncashed funny money that I would like to turn into actual green with which to do fun things like fill my Prozac prescription and buy my lover a supernice birthday present. Only I haven't been back to the club since my fun-filled evening with the footlicker, as I almost immediately came down with my annual spring-time nasty respiratory infection.

At first, I thought it was a smoker's hack -- a cough as dry and airy as antique lace. I complained far and wide that I'd only been smoking again for a couple of weeks and that the Nicotine Fairies should cut me some slack, already. Then the cough turned hollow and thick, and my throat swelled until I couldn't swallow my own spittle. I spent the weekend taking off and putting on a single pair of pajama pants and calling my boyfriend at work to plead for sympathy. On Monday I caved and saw my doctor. He told me the back of my throat was full of white pustules and that if I had waited another day to be seen, I would have had to have my tonsils out. He gave my a course of antibiotics and a prescription of synthetic heroin and told me to eat a lot of pudding and ice cream. Is it any wonder if I have a crush on such a man?

The next couple of days are kind of a blur. In fact, right now is kind of a blur, if you want to know, although the pain in my throat has died down to the point that I skipped my breakfast-time pain pill, hoping that would clear my head to the point I could resume normal daily functions, and even work on the articles whose deadlines squat on the horizon like those things that the Titanic hit, you know, with the ice? But my head's not any clearer, and I think I'll spend the rest of the day with the cats.

Anyway, I don't know if you're the kind of person who likes to go to the strip club and pay for a lap dance and then try to lick the stripper, but if you are, I'd like you to take this occasion to consider for a second what a perfect vector of disease a stripper is -- particularly one who allows herself to be licked by people like you. Are you thinking about it? Good. Now put reel your tongue back into your mouth, where it belongs.