I struck a deal with the live-in groundskeeper to get a mason jar full of 175 proof moonshine made out of sweet feed. Only in the Midwest.
Aaaaand cue crying all the way to the liquor store on my way to work, listening to The XX and looking for blow. Here goes. Goodbye 2013, hello 2014.
I did so many push-ups and planks today that, when I hopped in the shower afterward, shaving was awkward and difficult. You mean I’m supposed to be fit AND hairless?
What if, when I come out of the shadow economy, I can’t hack it? What if five-day-in-a-row workweeks feel like marathon torture exercises in sitting still? What if I can’t get out of bed in the morning? What if I’ve never learned to manage a paycheck (despite being great with budgeting)? What if no one will hire me? What if they only hire me so they can ask me for lap dances (this happened once)? What if something tragic happens and I can’t afford to fix it? How do I get a job with health benefits? What if I get fat? How will I not be a princess on a day-to-day basis? When I get stressed out at work, I won’t be able to drink…so then what? Should I tell the truth on my résumé or lie? If I lie and get caught, could I be in legal trouble? How do I navigate a daydweller’s world?
He told me I was a better high than heroin. I almost believed him.
Twice now — once at work, once at home — I’ve smelled…cocaine. My nose isn’t very accurate lately; I’ve also incorrectly smelled rabbits/rodents, bubblegum, vomit, and latex. The first time I noticed, it was smelling coke just outside of the dressing room. (For those that have never done a big fat rail of the stuff, no, you can’t smell cocaine unless you’re really close and inhaling very deep, very quickly.) I joked with the DJ about it a few weeks back. Phantom cocaine.
Another customer, a regular, commented on a dancer’s drinking problem. She really needs to stop drinking, he says. Really. She’s gotta quit. I say: we’ve all gotta stop, right? Someday, right?
I’m high as a kite on a Friday night — from the recommended dose of Benadryl — getting ready to whoop some ass in cribbage, at home, pretending not to love him. My, how times have changed.
Monday. Tonight. Liquor instead of completing my pre-work ritual, which would have included liquor, anyway. A run to the liquor store later, head hung in some sort of shame, my garter still on my leg as I ran in “just for a sec.”
I’ve grabbed twice at poles, reasonably sober, and missed, my depth perception strangely off.
I gotta go make more money. I’m trying to care. I’m trying.