which sucks almost as much as the old club. but!
but. they have "motivational" posters.
yeah. guys, this doesn't work as far as improving my mood goes.
but thanks for the chance to mock you.
and, for the record?? lap dances are the equivalent of doing 3 - 5 minutes of squats. in heels.
so it's not "dancing," it's fucking working out. while avoiding grabby octopushands customers, sometimes.
it's fucking cold and raining down here, which = absolutely no one on bourbon street, which = me making no money. so suffice to say i do NOT want to go in to work tonight.
i will stave off my bad attitude by
or maybe we're driving them insane. it's really hard to tell.
and i put my nose ring back in. which required these
and about thirty minutes to get from here
to here: slightly more closed. although it'll never, ever be straight.
the curse of continuous rings.
did you know there really IS a sing-sing down here?
now you know. actually i didn't know until i started working on bourbon. the street from hell, i am telling you.
AND i got a present... with handcuffs.
which surprisingly did not end up with me in jail.
the trackmarks are only for show. (lab work, they needed blood, and evidently i bruise easily.)
to look tough.
no, but some of the dancers are giving me weird looks now. good thing the club is dark.
"wanna lap dance to support my heroin habit?" "uh... no."
i think the plants are tired of the cold weather too.
and i have new plants. a rose bush and a bunch of other stuff that looks like dirt b/c we just planted the seeds but is in fact rosemary and lavender and celosia and poppies. (which i sincerely hope will produce opium...) : ]
i leave you with this before i have to make a mad dash to work:
i am cornholio. in a cashmere sweater.
and we all know what that means...
I NEED TEEPEE. FOR MY BUMHOLE!!