It is three in the morning. I’m living in a ghetto apartment. My cat took a big shit / piss on my very expensive, comfortable, and given to me bed today. I have been in the sex industry my whole adult life, I have nothing to show for it save for a few good stories, some horribly uncomfortable footwear, and the embarrassment of my biofamily. I’m a hundred grand in debt for an education that only I really appreciate. I’m deep in a rut. I am suffering from imposter complex. I have been for a long time. There is always someone cooler than me. Always. I’m an awesome writer, but I can’t get it through my head to work on the projects that I need to finish. I’m hot, but who gives a shit, I’m a mess. I want to be able to do something that other people can’t do but I just don’t feel like I am very good at anything right now.
I like to play with the truth, but then people think they know me, know who I am and what I am about, but they don’t they only know some little thing that I told them, wrote about, told the truth about.
I’m working as a stripper, again after years of not doing that. I have been avoiding working in the sex trade the whole time I have been involved with it. I only work when I need money. If I don’t need money I’m on the outs with this biz. I’m the sort who works a little, then does not answer my phone for a month, then desperately tries to round up some work cause my phone is about to get shut off. I think working is over rated.
I love my craft, but when I find myself looking for other people like me I only find myself becoming desperately frightened of my own disposable nature. You see, the problem is that I really don’t think I am anything special at all. I’m just like everyone else, everyone who worked really hard and has nothing to show for it; everyone who used the sex industry to fund their art, but got taken by an industry that chews up and spits people out. I’m really pretty unrecognizable in a sea of whorish women. It’s not that I have a low self-image or some horse shit like that, I just spent that last couple years in grad school, I feel like a louse.
I’m writing this to warm up my fingers but I don’t know what I’m really going to write, something smutty, something about my exciting life, the life that sucks less than most, but still seems like a cat just shit on my bed to me.