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Dirty Hustling – Vengeance is MINE!

31 Aug

Dirty Hustling = When another ho comes up and tries to steal your trick.

How to fight back:
The POOTER. I imagine sitting next to my worst frienemies making clients think somebody is busting a$$.
http://www.thepooter.com/

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And The Dickwad of the Week Award Goes to….

27 Aug

I’m not saying that one moment of being a dickwad or a douchebag means you are a complete and total dickwad. All dickwads and douchebags have their tender and heartfelt moments.

Certain moments however get to you more than most,
and for those moments, I will now be serving up the
“Dickwad of the Week Award.”

Dickwad of the week award goes to my new boss.
Granted, you have redeemed yourself, when
I was running an hour late at work and you let me make up for it by checking on plane tickets.
And granted, you have redeemed yourself by calling the owner of the place when I needed my drug fix.
But today you stepped into forbidden territory:

Stomping on a whore’s dreams.
Fuck you, boss man….first off, the only reason you know about my dreams outside of this place is because you had to be present while I was discussing YOU with YOUR boss. And when you say,

“Where you’re going, I’ve been there before.”
You bring up all the shiny and wonderful things that might possibly be related to my dream.
You say,
“I UNDERSTAND that the reason why you’re here is because you have a dream outside of here you are pursuing. If I coulda done what you’re doing, I woulda been there in a heartbeat. But my dreams, when I went and got them…I never had to do what you did.”

“Resort to other things?” I ask.

“Yes.” He says.

“Because your dreams and business ideas turned over a profit?”

“Exactly.” He says.

He says, “Now I know you want to see your name in lights and be on the front page of something…and the things you need to do to get where you’re going.”

“But I don’t KNOW where I’m going.” I say.

“That’s exactly my point.” He says.

End of conversation. He starts to leave the room.
“I’ve given up on what you’re thinking of. I’m moving on to a book deal!” I say.

Sigh.

BrothelBabe wants scientific answers! The 10 day fallout.

26 Aug

Every time I come here to work, about at day 10, plus or minus a few days, something happens which I call the “10 day fall-out.”
10 day fall-out
Call it homesickness, heartache, or a break down.
What I imagine is….your heart is a vessel for all these positive emotions.
Everything from your cat wanting to be held when you get home,
to the hand you hold with your forbidden lover, to your mother saying, “lets get lunch this week.”

All of your most recent memories have a 10 day holding time.

When the last drop of love drips out of your heart, like the last grain of sand
in an hourglass…something in you also runs out. Your body knows it, feels it, senses the loss, and doesn’t like it.

You’ve been physically cut off from all of the comforts of your other world back home, and when this moment of loss hits, all you can do is cry.

This time is strange as its the first time I have been back here not having an official boyfriend.
I HAD a boyfriend.
I HAD a ring. Well…he had it. Waiting to give it to me.
I didn’t want it.
I fell for somebody else – somebody forbidden.

Not intentionally either – I’m talking about the kind of love where you tripped, you fell hard, and there isn’t shit you can do about it. The kind where you say to yourself, “Really, heart? Are you sure?! I think you might have lost your mind.”

Knowing my heart no longer wanted to be with Mr. Sensible…I ended things with him some weeks ago, in favor of the untested waters of Mr. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

My boyfriend and I had a very different routine than this time’s 10 day Fall-Out.
Day 10 was when we would fight, and I’d want to break up.

This time all I could do was cry.
Because I miss everything that’s right,
but mostly I miss Mr. Wrong.

I wish I knew the science of “Day 10.” Alpha female, biological chemical warfare, explained. Maybe my ovaries sense the loss. Maybe after 10 days of a night shift, my dopamine levels are low, and the crying is due to a lack of natural sunlight. Its certain that exercise alone doesn’t fix it. No amount of treadmill running and pole dancing is a suitable cure.

Having this much free time working the night shift allows your brain the opportunity to get a little too imaginative. Your head spins around all the magical “what-ifs”.

What IF Mr. Wrong was suddenly available. What IF Mr. Wrong knew how I felt.
I don’t know that he knows. There’s plenty to dig up. We have facebook, after all…where I’ve left plenty of pieces making it easy for any love detective to put together.

Talking with my genius writer friend online, he said that I should tell Mr. Wrong how I feel. I type out a practice letter, as if writing to Mr. Wrong. My friend revised it. It became brilliance and simplicity, all in one.

I took that letter and re-fashioned it to my liking in an email.

Then I got reasonable, and asked myself questions.

What is the result of a whore saying “I want to be with you”?
You can’t really be with a girl while she lives in a brothel.
I’m here to take care of my life. Relationships seem imaginary.
Mr. Wrong is just as broke as I am so saying “lets run off and be together!”
is the biggest joke imaginable.

Unlike other women, I don’t seek to possess or own any man.
No man can truly call me “his” right now, and knowing somebody is the keeper of my heart would not change the reality of my situation.

That email? I saved it, and it will never be sent.
I have too much pride to be anything other than realistic.

Instead in my moment of longing, all I could do was text Mr. Wrong and say,
“How’s the weather back home? I’m missing it.”
As if to say, “I’m missing you.”
His response?
“It’s hot here too.”