Substance. Substantial. Substantiated.

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.


~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on September 23, 2013.

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