Adieu

"I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort."
--Goldsmith

"You were spiritually dead through your sins and failures, all the time you followed this world's ideas of living... we all lived like that in the past, and followed the desires and imaginings of our lower natures, being, in fact, under the wrath of God by nature, like everyone else."
--Ephesians 2:1-3 (Phi)

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
--Virginia Woolf

Unless a particularly remarkable addendum occurs to me at a later date, this will be my last entry in this stupid stripper blog. I have decided the sex industry and I are parting ways permanently, and not a moment too soon.

It happened like this:

After my annoyance with stripping reached a fevered pitch about five weeks ago, I decided to take a break, effective immediately. Although at that time I thought of it as more of an hiatus, in the last few days I have decided I would rather collect cans from the side of the road than accrue more bad karma by repeatedly flouting the law of "Right Livelihood" as Buddhists would see it, or court a lifestyle rife with mortal sin, as fellow Christians would term my participation in the sex industry. My conviction that I have indeed been living in an absolutely sinful state since I began accepting money for acts remotely sexual in nature over a year ago has lately become immutable, in fact. Reading over this blog disgusts me now. It seems to be floundering, semi-hysterical, devoid of integrity. It is certainly evidence of a painfully confused state of mind into which I never plan to enter again.

Anyhow, I'm done. From now on I shall sublimate, stifle or, ideally, transcend my exhibitionist/submissive impulses until such a time as a man suitable to be my husband enters the picture. Within the confines of marriage, such acts/tendencies would definitely fall under the category of expressions of "sanctified joy". If no such relationship emerges, I'll live happily, even so. I've been abstinent this long, and I can handle it as long as it's necessary-- even forever.

I know I am doing the right thing because I can pray again-- for the first time in months-- with no sense of separation between myself and the Divine. I possess the sincere conviction that through my repentance I am finally received back into the fold. Although I realize God's love is unconditional, I actively divorced myself from it through my sinful actions, and have been paying the price, consciously or no, for far too many months. Well, that's all over now.

As for what's happening in my life right now...

I've started volunteering at an animal shelter in Williamsburg. Maybe someday I'll get a foxy little pomeranian, but until then, I'll pet abandoned cats and walk monstrous mutts down Bedford Avenue. I spend so much time in quiet contemplation I find it necessary and indeed therapeutic for me to be in contact other living, breathing creatures-- yesterday I walked a saucy little puppy and hugged him when we rested on a bench, feeling his happy little heart beating, which filled me with joy.

When the quiet at home becomes deafening I get out and spend time with my beautiful friends. I've been going to a Buddhist temple in Chinatown with Pearl, and I find it very peaceful there:



I'm signing up to take some more improv classes, too, which I really enjoy.

I am also slowly regaining my ability to focus, and to write. This is a blessing I can hardly overstate. My capacity for sustained and virtuous labor seems to increase the longer I am away from the strip club. This definitely indicates that I'm making the right decision by making my hiatus permanent. It is apparent that I can only hope to pursue my literary ambitions by taking good care of myself and making my inward and outward environments stable and free from lewdness. Virginia Woolf was right-- access to a quiet room and the assurance of a decent, fixed income are the two necessary things a woman must have if she is to write fiction. Although I hardly possess a trust fund or annuity of any sort, I have no debt, and my savings will last a few more months. After that I hope to find a part-time job somewhere quiet and beautiful, and spend the remainder of the time resting or writing.

My sleep disorder is, as always, in effect, but I am trying to accept things as they are, since nothing seems to change my symptoms, least of all worry or self-reproach.

As far as men go...

The men I have dated in the last month are either inappropriately devoted to me or seem to be merely toying with me and saving the best of themselves for something or someone else. I can only imagine this has been the natural result of meeting people when my mind was in a severe state of confusion. Bad idea. Time to move on and start afresh with dignity, which should help me stop attracting perverts and other non-committal, undesirable men. On dates or shortly thereafter I sometimes still find myself trying to practice a sort of unholy emotional alchemy that is, at heart, merely romantic delusion, but I've largely learned to stop trying to transmute rejection into acceptance and frogs into princes. Instead just accept things as they are, feelings and people included. I have a lot of faith things will go well from now on whether I am single forever or a wife within the year.

Best of all, when my stubborn little brother finally comes to visit, perhaps within a month or so, I can receive him with a clean, innocent, undivided heart.

I rejoice at the thought.

Adieu


----

PS It's interesting to pray now and feel I really have joined the ranks of the formerly sinful and now repentant believers. When I feel ashamed I simply remind myself that I am in good company-- Tolstoy, St. Paul, etc. Not that one can ever be entirely free of sin...

Ah, life.

Sassy

Sometimes I chat online with an old friend-- a former model/actor and double- Cancer sensitive type whom I met in an improv class a couple of years ago here in NY. I had quite a crush on him then (he has beautiful blue eyes and a gorgeous body), but he was oblivious and nothing developed. Now we lives on the West Coast. A few months ago we reconnected. If we lived in the same state nowadays, our friendliness and playful attraction to one another now mutually acknowledged, I'm sure we would have an interesting relationship (though I suspect never a serious one). Because we are both devoted to becoming more spiritually attuned at all times, our interactions would likely be based as much on our shared love of meditation as our slightly kinky fantasies. He knows about my no premarital sex stance, and, since he has often chosen to explore abstinence for long periods of time as well, we are on the same page about promiscuity, etc.

Every couple of months I get sassy and send him a pic or two of myself. This morning I took these:




Although possibilities are revolving on the horizon, I am not on sending-nude-pics-for-fun terms with anyone else at the moment, which is great. I'm so happy being single right now. I got asked on a couple of dates this week, but I'm not sure I want to go. Maybe I'll flip a coin.

Today I am filled with joy.

PS Had an appointment with another plastic surgeon the other day. He said he couldn't, in good conscience, touch me. To appease me he also asked a colleague and a former professor, and they agreed. Since the doctor who did my nose and *his* supervisor refused to touch me further, also, I have declared myself satisfied with my face. I'd be insane to go against the advice of five plastic surgeons who refuse to take my money. Maybe some day a less invasive means of correcting asymmetry and deviations from ideal facial proportions will be invented, and I can get myself smoothed out then. Until that day, I shall be content.

Chattel

Photos taken this weekend near Madison Square Park, in the East Village and at Rockaway Beach, respectively:






I went to the beach with a friend on the 4th of July, and got a sunburn so splotchy and rash-like I decided I needed to take the week off of work. On Tuesday I went in to Tryst to show it to the manager, who gave me an infinite amount of hassle about my request. He said sunburn wasn't a "legitimate" reason for taking time off. However, in an industry where beauty and confidence are necessary to generate income, having a painful and ugly sunburn is-- obviously-- an absolutely valid reason not to be able to come in. Who would pay me for a lap dance when I felt and looked far from my best, as my body language and demeanor would no doubt reflect?

Anyway, I was treated like a liar and fined 50 dollars for my last-minute "no-show" (I had actually called in on Monday to warn the manager of my situation, but the club's policy on cancellation is giving a full week's notice or one gets fined).

"Congratulations for putting him in a bad mood," said the cashier with wide, frightened eyes. She is usually friendly to me when she's ringing me up (for the champagne sales I make and the house fee I pay, surprise, surprise) so it was news to me that she could be so cowardly and petty.

"I'm telling the truth, and I am NOT working here this week. Whatever else happens, happens," I said with a shrug.

(maybe I would expect my schedule to be more inflexible if this were a salaried office job, but then nobody would be prying into my discretionary allotment of personal off-time, for which I would be paid, rather than having to pay my employer for the privilege. I would also not have to take time off for a sunburn if I worked in an office, so the point would be moot.)

I think it's disgusting for the other adults at the strip club to run around like scared rabbits based on the whims of the manager. I was only asking for time off, something a lot of employees do in any occupation. If this audacious request sets him off like a child being denied a toy, so be it. My intention was to do the best thing for me, which I believe is-- unequivocally, and also as a universal policy-- never harmful to anyone else.

I am so tired of being treated like a dumb bitch, subject to the whims of a patriarchal system in which even the women in management try to scare the dancers into seeing things their way (which is not always the right way) and treat us like the club's chattel.

PS Last night I went out with my friend Pearl, who is dating a conservative French-Canadian chemical engineer.

"If we go anywhere, I'm driving," he said to her recently.

"Would you like me to wear a burqa while we're at it?" she responded.

Seems there's no faction of society in which men don't revel in controlling women capriciously, when the opportunity arises.

Mystery

"It is the mystery which enchants, and its being is extinguished with the extinction of the necessary combination of its elements."
-- Friedrich von Schiller

I realize I've been updating this blog less frequently because the experience of being a stripper has been largely demystified for me. My adventurous mind-set has become... less so regarding the sex industry. I suppose I shall figure out what to do in the natural course of time... I'm currently taking 6 days off to try to steel myself for another unbroken stretch of work... it seems I can last about three weeks at a time without overloading, but no more than that.

Dogs

I keep having dreams in which I am quasi-forcibly given one or two dogs I really don't want.

"I wanted a pomeranian puppy and no other breed," I explain in the dreams to the random person trying to foist an ugly, enormous rottweiler-mix mutt or old and putrid bulldog on me. Thereafter I am somehow convinced to dog sit for these beasts. Whether the owner is coming back or not becomes ambiguous after awhile.

PS Worst week at the strip club ever, income-wise. The people were really interesting, though... I'm sure I'll be back to earning a decent amount of money per shift next week, after all the men with money are back in town.

Sidney Crosby Stanley Cup Slumber Party

I can tell my life is boring when I get crushes on random athletes en masse. This phenomenon happens approximately once a year for a month-long period or so. Another inevitable part of this cycle is the need to watch uplifting sports documentaries and interviews. Based on previous year's sports fixations, it's my informed opinion that the whole thing is a fairly accurate sign that I'm definitely not optimizing my creative potential at present. However, the phase must run its course.

I tell ya, stripping apparently drains the upward mobility and artistic impulses out of me. However, when I re-watch old Joe Calzaghe interviews it's much easier for me to stay inspired. I believe life is worth living when I watch that humble man jogging down Welsh dirt roads and training in a converted shed with his father.

And when I see Sidney Crosby (who still lives in Mario Lemieux's guest house even though he is 21 years old) all snuggled up with the Stanley Cup:



I once again believe in everything that is good and noble and true about mentorship and one generation virtuously succeeding the next. In sports, at least.

Babycakes etc.

"As a Bokonist, of course, I would have agreed gaily to go where anyone suggested. As Bokonon says: "Peculiar travel suggestion are dancing lessons from God."
-- Kurt Vonnegut, "Cat's Cradle"

Yesterday afternoon I decided to make myself as attractive as possible and set out for a little adventure with a friend. I surrendered my own objectives and simply did whatever he wanted to do. It was really fun.

I started by getting my hair washed and set, as I do every week, at a Dominican salon in my neighborhood. I think they overcharge me because I'm white, but I don't really mind. They always do a great job. I passed the time under the hairdryer reading the early short stories of Flannery O'Connor (I've been enjoying O'Connor so much lately I've had a really difficult time putting her books away when it's time to work at the strip club where reading is frowned upon).



I really wanted this purse:



I saw it in a boutique window a couple of doors down from Babycakes, a vegan bakery where I met up with my aforementioned friend. We ate red velvet cupcakes and raspberry jelly rolls made with spelt flour and agave nectar-- the only baked goods I've eaten recently due to my moratorium on white flour and refined sugar. Then we bought surprisingly good books from card tables set up on the street near NYU and rambled around the Village.

Afterward I had a date with a very nervous man I doubt I'll see again. He is smart, but far too ill at ease in his own skin for me.

Dodge

I need to stop walking down my block during daylight hours on Sunday or else suck it up and go to church more often. Since Sunday services at the nearly next-door Pentecostal church I've often attended last all day, the odds I'll see a fellow congregant I know on the sidewalk are apparently 100& at any given time. Plus, since I'm seemingly the only white person ever known to attend this particular church, my fellow parishioners remember me well.

It always makes me feel guilty.

Today I ran into a deaconess I like a lot while on my way to pick up some fruit.

"You been working hard lately?" she asked, which is a kind way to inquire about my unexplained absence from the church.

"Yeah. Too hard," I responded briefly.

"I'm off all summer. I work for the Board of 'Ed, so I'm free till September." She smiled.

"Lucky lady!" I laughed and shuffled off with a smile and a backward wave, happy to see her but not exactly thrilled to have to dodge her questions in advance about the nature of my work, etc.

Rough stuff. I do it to myself.

Staal Brothers Make Me Dizzy

I have a big crush on all four of the tall, blonde Staal brothers, three of whom already play in the NHL (the youngest is eligible for next season's draft). Yesterday evening I watched an interview with second-eldest Jordan Staal (who probably gets sick of all those questions about his wunderkind Penguins teammate Sidney Crosby) with the sound off while dancing on the bar stage at Tryst. I almost fell all over myself when they showed side-by-side shots of him with his gorgeous brothers. Such an overwhelming dose of masculine beauty is hard to handle while one is trying to stay balanced on 5-inch heels at the end of an 8-hour shift.

PS 2 Reading over my recent posts makes me cringe. I've been such an ungrateful whiner!!!!! No more!!!!!!

Rut

The cancer lurks secure and spreading where furtiveness hides in rows of decaying brick.
-- HP Lovecraft, "The Horror at Red Hook"

My state of torpor has increased to such a degree that I woke up the past few mornings with an alarm bell going off in my mind-- a loud, urgent reminder that sloth is a sin. I feel like a dying pile of flesh, trapped in a paralyzing cycle of indecision. I have become another lost and morally diseased person in a dirty neighborhood of drug dealers and addicts, though my crisis has to do with total confusion and exhaustion, rather than addiction. I feel trapped bodily in my own home, with no ability to envision an outside world outside wider in scope or possibility than the strip club or occasional church sanctuary. Lack of vision is an imprisoning force-- when paired with almost total surcease of energy, the effect is as disgusting as it is weighty.

When I walk down the block to buy food, I encounter people, some of whom I know and like, yet I can't seem to find connections with others or a regular schedule of work manageable anymore.

"When are you coming back to the church?" a tall young man asked me Sunday as I passed him on the street in front of the Pentecostal church near my home.

"I don't know. I have no excuse for not coming in anymore. I'm just lazy." I said without inflections or emotion, neglecting to add that I also feel tainted with the shame of working in a dishonorable profession.

In short: things are bad.

I've found that people in this world who stop contributing to the greater good and become trapped in their own egoic cycles of misery tend to fall into a rapid state of despair and decay (in that order). I don't want to be one of those people.

I am praying right now for a sign. I hope I am able to find a way to contribute to this world positively, and manage to escape this rut.

PS I am trying to avoid all potentially romantic scenarios, but it seems I haven't tried hard enough. Somehow I've managed to give two men my new phone number this week, and the sound of their various texts popping up on my phone is horrible-- like a recrimination for lack of integrity. I don't want to waste anyone's time, so I don't respond. I should have never let them have my information in the first place... that's what I get for meeting people from craigslist ads and the like-- texts from fast-talking lawyers in New Jersey who want to get me drunk on Grey Goose somewhere and film location scouts trying to tempt me to see "Transformers 2" in IMAX. Really? If those are the interests of people I currently attract, I'll just wish them well and go buy some books instead. Whatever other issues may be arising in my personal life, I really am 100% content being single right now.

PS The animal that best represents my current state of being is the naked mole rat:

Stray

"Cats know how to obtain food without labor, shelter without confinement, and love without penalties."
-- W. L. George



This morning I awoke to a frightening sight. The hale and glossy cat who recently started living on top of the storage shed in my back yard suddenly appeared mangy, dusty and as stiff as roadkill.

For a minute I was sure he was dead.

"Cat!" I cried, hopeful that making noise might incite him to move a bit if indeed he still lived. I was duly rewarded by a cursory--but still very welcome-- twitch of his dark tail in response.

I like seeing him every day. I highly suspect him of being charmingly naughty, but since he's a Bushwick alley cat he probably spends more time trying to keep his little head above water survival-wise than playing kittenish pranks.

I wonder where he goes when it rains?

PS I mentioned the cat to a customer at Tryst the other day.

"A cat on your storage shed?" he asked incredulously. "What, down by the crick? Where do you *live* that you have a *shed*?"

"Bushwick," I laughed.

Ah, me.

PS Why is the lawn furniture overturned? I swear it was right-side-up last week. I don't even want to know.

Highway To Heaven

The dress I'm wearing today (bought in Washington Heights for 12 dollars last summer) has a lovely peacock print that somewhat reminds me of the more Rococo illustrations of Dr. Seuss:



Also:

Ever since I was a child of five I've had lingering, sorrowful memories of a particularly compelling "Highway to Heaven" episode featuring a homeless, mentally challenged boy living in a cardboard box. Forced by his tragic circumstances to steal cans of tuna from the mean old man-owned corner store in order to feed his beloved pet cat, he makes a fateful birthday wish (on a stale hamburger bun, in his box in a Skid Row alley, with candles he also shoplifted) for someone to love him, upon which an angel (Michael Landon, duh) shows up to help him make it come true.

Now. Having a few days off and no other pressing interests except painting various picture frames in one of four separate pastel colors (still have to buy new mats at Pearl tomorrow):



I decided to find it on You Tube and see if it affected me as powerfully as of yore. Oh my gosh, I watched it twice in two days and got tears in my eyes both times.

I really enjoyed it. I felt genuinely inspired to be less selfish, and to be grateful more often. Whether one views this sort of religious family drama as cheap emotional pornography or, conversely, as a highly accessible and righteous form of popular culture, if the affect on the viewer is enobling (which it was/is for me), I feel the other issues are essentially moot points. Also, the fact that Michael Landon claimed he conceived (as well as subsequently wrote, directed and starred in) "Highway to Heaven" after he made a solemn pact with God at the hospital bedside of his critically injured daughter to produce television shows that made a genuine difference if she recovered (she did), either makes him the most shameless huckster of his generation or a spiritually as well as commercially enterprising man who was simply doing his best.

The episode is called, "Alone".



Note: the children in "Highway to Heaven" seemed to be on summer vacation 99% of the time. Maybe that's because most of them were runaways, terminally ill types, etc. who never went to school anyway.

PS It looks as though the latter half of the week is going to be clear. I'm so tired of this rain-- such a record-breaking, relentless deluge is terrible for business at the strip club as well as my soul.

Underneath My Tree/Teeth

I bought some adorable little drawings by Jason Sposa of Underneath My Tree (http://www.underneathmytree.com/index.html) at the Renegade Craft Fair a week or two ago. I'm really in love with his work. I think I'll buy another print or two for my mother as a birthday present, and maybe one more for myself while I'm at it.

On a totally unrelated note, I keep having recurring dreams involving tooth loss. According to the articles I've been browsing, such dreams are apparently very common. Unfortunately, not one of the various interpretations I've found regarding dreams about tooth loss is positive.

This web site (http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art10573.asp) says:

"Sometimes tooth loss dreams point to a fear of failure or embarrassment. In waking life, when people lose teeth, they often cover their mouths when talking or smiling. Is there something you want to do but are afraid of undertaking because you fear you'll look foolish if you fail? Or is there something going on in your waking life that you feel you must hide or 'cover up'?"

It seems the burden of my secret life is beginning to poison even my dreams.

I'm not very surprised.

PS I finally bought a new phone. Maybe I'll even get around to telling people I got a new phone number... eventually-ish. It's an iPhone, but this is probably the last time I'll mention that fact. People who talk about their phones or check them obsessively annoy me greatly. Most inexplicable to me is when someone grabs his or her significant other's phone and feels entitled to play with it. I can't imagine being okay with any human being checking my texts. The prospect makes me want to crack skulls, I can't lie.

Sneakers

I really want some new sneakers. I feel like a brown sparrow among birds of paradise every time I cross the Williamsburg Bridge on the JMZ. Sadly, all the most fabulous, rampantly colorful ones seem to be made, at least partially, of leather.

Boo...

PS My feet hurt so badly from dancing double shifts. I'm going to see if I can find some more comfortable stripper heels around West 4th before I go back to work on Tuesday.

Love Story

Today my landlord (Barry) and 'lady (Barbara), good friends of mine, came over. I baked a crumb-topped blueberry pie, and Barbara told me her plans to write a book about their love story.

She really ought to. Anytime a Peruvian Christian man and an Hasidic Jewish woman get married, the story is worth telling.

Surfing is Legal in Chicago?

They recently legalized surfing in my hill-free hometown of Chicago, where even the waves are flat. I wonder if I'll see boogie boards and the whole nine when I visit this summer?

Time has a good article about it. I wonder why I can't seem to figure out how to do hotlinks or whatever anymore...

http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1904261,00.html?iid=tsmodule

Blake/Soulless Seduction

Children of the future age,
Reading this indignant page,
Know that in a former time
Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.
-- William Blake



Once again I have been reading and gazing upon the sometimes beautiful, often hellish but always visionary works of William Blake. This drawing-- "The Night of Enitharmon's Joy" struck a particular chord in me today. Enitharmon is so peaceful, even when surrounded by demons. You can tell she finds blackest night and devilry to be matters-of-course.

Thought: I refuse to stem the the occasional tide of undirected, yet radiant loving energy I feel when I'm at work. This is, perhaps, a mistake? Should I hide my light under a bushel basket even while stripping? Just a thought because:

I felt a lightning bolt of attraction for a customer yesterday evening that shook me up quite a lot. In fact, I believe it's been about a year since I felt such an instant rapport with a man-- we seemed to be on the same wavelength, instantly. Though this customer comes in most weeks, I've never had the opportunity to speak with him before. Another woman always seems to get to him first, and, because he spends most of his time upstairs, he is never on the floor for long. He wears beautiful Italian suits with high, aristocratic collars, has pleasing, symmetrical features, large, hypnotic eyes and a shockingly beautiful body.

After a few minutes of interesting conversation he bought a dance, and I stripped off my dress and ran my hands down his muscular arms, sinking briefly to my knees while looking up at him. As in a fever dream I imagined the two of us alone, and all the delicious things he might do to me as I knelt before him in such a submissive posture. It made me dizzy.

He asked me what else I do with my time, and I actually told him that I write for a feminist publication instead of my usual lie about being a student. We discussed various schools of feminist thought and social mores. In response to his query about my particular brand of feminism, I said that I equate feminism with freedom.

I looked steadily in his eyes. "I'm also very submissive."

"I know," he answered simply, the way a discerning man in a hurry (which he was) sees a watch he likes in a shop window and buys it instantly, and without fanfare.

"I know you know, because you're clearly very dominant." I suddenly found myself wanting to kiss him, which was a first for me regarding a customer.

"Yes I am," he answered with warmth but no fire. I wasn't sure if he was being a gentleman or trying to make me feel I hadn't earned it quite yet.

I smiled but did not laugh, because I could somewhat intuit that he was about to attempt to seduce me. My usual coquetry was strangely absent, as if my genuine attraction for him had stripped me of all my sham sexuality. In spite of myself I suddenly recognized that we were in agreement about something deep I didn't care to analyze. Not that it had to go anywhere, of course.

"I know you're going to say something that really surprises me," I said in the soft voice that passes as a whisper in a loud strip club, as I writhed nearly nude on his lap.

He obliged by asking me to come with him to his friends home in the Hamptons for the weekend. The train was leaving in half an hour. Of course I declined. He tried mightily to convince me, but I'd be a fool to date a customer. Especially one with money who comes in fairly often, and spend hours at a time in the champagne room with girls he likes. Why give anything to him for free?

"Well, we missed a fun opportunity, but you'll see me around again," he added with a smile as our dance and my shift ended simultaneously.

"Was that the royal we?" I asked rhetorically and with playful scorn, suddenly feisty and unwilling to be included against my will in his statement.

He smiled.

"Have a lovely weekend," I said in parting as I added his money to the roll on my ankle garter and bounded downstairs to get dressed in my street clothes. Suddenly I wanted to get away from him and the strip club and blot out the memory of all the other overwhelming propositions and soulless seduction attempts by strange men I'd fielded lately. None of them meant anything for more than five minutes, after all.

I decided everything about Tryst is meant to be forgotten after my work day/night ends, and I mean to be more assiduous in my efforts to do so from now on. Nothing that happens there is going to carry an ounce of weight in my real life anymore. Other nighttime fantasies pale in the morning light, why should not those I create as a stripper follow suit?

(Scary aside-- a super-creepy customer kept trying to convince a dancer from work to go home with him. "No." she said perpetually. When he asked why, she said: "Because you might chop me up in a million pieces and throw me in the East River." He replied, "No-- I'd only chop you up into three pieces.")

Spoooooooky.

PS Afterward at a restaurant some asshole construction worker sat next to me, got absolutely in my face and wouldn't stop hitting on me no matter what I said.

"It's because I'm black, isn't it?" he asked.

I gave him a withering look. He was undeterred.

"You got a boyfriend?" he asked. He was loathsome. I imagined cutting his tongue out with a scalpel and rubbing his fat, ugly face in his own blood.

"Do *YOU* have a boyfriend?" I asked in return, wishing someone would come and shoot him nobly on my behalf. Nobody did, so I left, as he unleashed a loud torrent of profanity and insults so disgusting everyone turned around to look. Awesome.

I'm so full of anger right now. Recounting the experiences make me feel that I was genuinely abused, and that I hate life. At least I can be grateful enough to say this is the first encounter I've had with such an awful stranger since I moved to New York two years ago.

PS2 I still haven't gotten a new phone. I don't care anymore. I don't want to talk to anyone right now.

Exotic

Random thoughts:

1.) I'm not an exotic dancer. My dancing is extremely conventional-- I just do it semi-nude.

2.) I will not subject anyone to the fascism of my expectations.

3.) I am completely content.

4.) Among the many types of lawyers I have met in the past couple of years, I find I have the most rapport with litigators. They are really ostentatious and usually have a creative streak a mile wide, even if it is generally of the jazz and Miro-loving variety I never do understand.

5.) I want this adorable pomeranian puppy I encountered in a pet store near Union Square. One nearly identical to it will do in absentia.

Fattened Tentacle's Grasp

Anthony was glad he wasn't going to work on his book. The notion of
sitting down and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe
thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed--the whole thing was
absurdly beyond his desires.
-- F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Beautiful and Damned"

Yesterday I decided to absolutely wallow in indolence in hopes of tiring of it as quickly as possible. I told myself I didn't need to write anything, ever again, hoping that some noble instinct in me would rebel against such wasteful drivel, break through my facade of indifference and spur me to write, after all. I was surprised that such a tactic did indeed, almost immediately (well, say after 7 hours) enable me to wriggle out of sloth's fattened tentacle's grasp and begin a short story. SIGH. Well, finally! My cup runneth over with gratitude.

Tonight I have to work at the strip club from 5-1, and it's raining AGAIN! The amount of rain we've been getting lately is really disheartening for those of us who depend on clear weather to attract customers. I really want to ditch work, but I need to earn some money this week-- Tuesday was awful, and I only worked one day last week, so I can't justify staying home again. I'm beginning to resist going in to work every day now. Well, until I attract a new source of income, I will stick with stripping rather than be unemployed.

Ah, well, I'm so grateful that I began a promising bit of writing that I will try not to let my other occupation get me down. I will make it as fun and profitable for myself as possible, and look forward to finishing my story this weekend.

Dreams

Last night I had a dream that I had a party, and someone left a small bottle full of LSD one could only use by means of an eyedropper (as actual eyedrops) in my medicine chest as a present.

I shrugged ("I've avoided drugs all this time, and I'm miserable anyway. Oh, why not?" I thought) and saturated an eye with harsh liquid LSD. Very little happened. I kept anxiously waiting for the hallucinations to begin; however, the outlines of a few prosaic domestic objects getting wavy was the only change I noticed. It was a really anticlimactic dream.

Oh, and for posterity it's worth mentioning that I constantly dream of movie theaters. It's been this way for years. Sometimes I just stop by for popcorn. They always let me in to get it. I wonder if it would be like that in the waking world, if I tried?

Lately I have also had quite a few disturbing dreams about my teeth falling out.

PS I really want to have a party. When I tally up all the holidays I was either too ill, depressed or stressed out to celebrate this year (my birthday, Easter, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, New Year's Eve) I can hardly believe it. So pathetic. Maybe I'll have a belated housewarming or tea party/bunch for my estranged girlfriends. Any excuse to bake pretty little treats will do, honestly, especially now that my house is finally fit to show other people. I find the prospect really exciting, especially if I get to buy a new dress and shoes also.