I Wish I Were A Whore

My boyfriend just told me that if I ever needed to talk to anyone about rape I should go to him first. I'm sorry, maybe I am insensitive, but I really don’t think that he is who I should go to. I think I’d rather go to Montel and have him ask me a billion questions about orifices and objects and broomsticks and bottles than give my boyfriend a dissertation on rape.

The conversation started when we were talking about a previous girlfriend of his – a girl who I thought was very stupid and who had propositioned me for sex many times, but, boo hoo, she had been raped, and I should be able to identify with that. Just because I had worked with people like sex workers and rape victims in the past (not that they're anything alike, but people love to group them together) I suddenly should feel this sisterhood with every hummus-filled vagina who had it stuffed by her daddy or uncle's dick. No sir. This is not the way this bargain basement female works.

Truth is, it could be pretty hard to rape me. I think I’m much more likely to be a prostitute than a rape victim. Lets see...what do i have to offer?

First off, I always like to lie and since I don't like to give blow jobs and have big teeth, I like to say I give toothy blow jobs... even though I have been told they’re still pretty excellent. I don’t know how well a whore who doesn’t give head would go over. On the other hand, I always said if I ever lost my social work job, I would go into escorting. Then again, I don’t know if I’m ever allowed to live out my dream of being a prostitute due to my possessive boyfriend.

The reason I think I might be able to tolerate it so much is that the kinds of guys who go to prostitutes, Johns if you will, are sort of sad to me. And I sort of romanticize it. For example, I once went home with some 53 year old man and puked in his house before fucking him. As I lay under the blankets in his twin sized bed, unable to sleep, but unable to move for fear that he would try to talk to me, I stared at all the creepy photos of his mother that littered his room and realized I was probably the only woman who had ever been in that bed with him… except maybe his mother. And yet, I don’t look back on that as a sad memory. It's been three Thanksgivings since that terribly foul/crazy encounter and he still calls me, fully aware that I have a boyfriend. In fact, I just got a call from him last night and he told me I can take refuge in his house when my boyfriend and I are fighting. If every client was like that... I swear I think I may be able to stand it. I have a certain affection in my heart for this man... Albert.

They say prostitution is one of the oldest professions in the world (it’s also the first line a pimp will ever feed to you). It’s only "degrading" because people in this society think its degrading. I hate getting all political... but it makes me sick. I should have a bite... a taste at it. Money for sex. I need to survive. Other women out there need to survive.

Honestly, I think that my social work experience would really help make me one of the best prostitutes out there. I mean I already like sex, and I already like helping people. These men like sex and sometimes they feel lonely and need to be talked to. I really think I could be some kind of super prostitute. I could have people come to me for sex, then after (or before) we could talk about things – their lives, their jobs, their families.

A girl can dream, can’t she? And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to at least try it. It’s a free country. Sure, there are laws prohibiting prostitution, but yea they can be loose on that shit if it’s for a good cause, right?

I should also mention I’m getting kind of desperate. No one is hiring me. I've been trying now for six months and was just told last week by my unemployment counselor that I don't make eye contact so I'll never be able to get a job. I don’t think that’s the reason. I think it’s just her. I don't want to look at her ever-judging, scary, ugly, stupid eye. It's ugly. She's gross and fat. Her face looks like a big turd to me and I feel like she is firing out electric turds through her eyes and if I make eye contact with her I'll get shit in my eye. I should just tell her that. Maybe then she'd get rid of me.

On top of it all, there are plenty of other people who are much worse at their jobs making more money than me. I mean, come on… if Megan Mullaly from that horrible show, Will and Grace, got her own talk show, and Lindsay Lohan is running around with a vacuum cleaner for a nose sniffing whatever the fuck is put in front of it while America is still adoring her, and that she-beast-monstrosity, Rosie O’Donnel, still has legions of fans, why the fuck can't I get money for a toothy blow job? And why the fuck do I still have all of my goddamned teeth? Jesus fucking Christ! I've torn apart my body limb from limb for close to 27 years now and I still have teeth? What the fuck is that? I’ve been ravaging my body for a couple decades and I still get carded for cigarettes. Why do I look like this?

I need to accelerate my look. You know... "that" look – the one white women get when they have had hard lives and their skin becomes all ravaged and thick and orange. They look like they are made of leather. Not just regular leather either… they look like old leather bags. They look like someone carried around a purse for 20 years and then stretched it over their faces. And their lips get real thin, but they of course try to compensate for this by making lips on their faces and piling as much makeup on as possible. Their eyes close. Their tits sag down to their knees and they wear spandex or sweat suits. Their hair thins and almost totally disappears. And they are usually accompanied by a black man. They have little to no teeth and their names tend to be something like Cookie or Tweety or Sweet Thang.

I'm fucking 26. Why do I still have teeth?

The way I see it, if I can't become a prostitute then I deserve to be a billionaire. Fuck these unemployment checks, social security for being nuts, food stamps, welfare queen, trying to get famous shit. It’s one or the other. Black or white. Fuck this in between shit. Not knowing where my next Church's Chicken meal is coming from. Having a controlling boyfriend... who is of course broke as hell. Having a shitty house, and a bad mouse problem, but no roaches. My damn toilet still works. I have air conditioning in my room. My skin is not turning to leather, and my hair and teeth are not falling out. I am declared legally and mentally disabled, but where's the black pimp and my prostitution job and social security and everything that comes along with this shit? I don't fucking get it. I have a home. I'm glad I have it. But it sucks. I have my clown paintings and my television and my possessive boyfriend. But they suck. My heavy doses of legal prescriptions, my pints of vodka, and my chicken… they all suck. Where do I go from here? Everything is so average.... so boring.

On the bright side, I do have a good, old hag type of nickname. People do call me "Lil Princess," a name that I took on after I remembered that my father used to call me that as a child and then tell me a really graphic story about a man who called his daughter his "Lil Princess" and then he would rape and torture her. That's pretty close to Tweety. I also have an old black friend named Sam who used to be a pimp. The only thing I have to get over is my reluctance to fuck stupid, ugly guys. I know I’ve gotten over it in the past, but I was also really drunk and I mostly don't remember. Damn… if only my parents would have done the right thing and pushed me into pornography when I was a child, so I'd have more of a knack of fucking douchebags by now. What a bunch of assholes.

Oh well, maybe I'm not destined to be a prostitute. My face isn't leathery. I've met girls who are about 20 who already are far into "the look". They wear their little gold necklaces that say "shorty" and have their tattoos of pimps names on their necks in Old English next to a tattoo of Taz in a motorcycle jacket or a gold chain, depending on the "type." They are well on their way and I’m not. I have a "college degree." A street ho can't have a college degree. Sure, lots of prostitutes say they do what they do to get that college degree and go straight, but who the fuck has ever heard of a girl who already has a college degree and then goes on to become a whore? It's too embarrassing.

I guess if I’m truly dedicated to the idea, I’ll figure it out one day. Until then, I guess I’m stuck with these damn unemployment checks.

Anyone got some coupons for Church’s Chicken?

Live Fast...Die Old

I have just come to a terrible realization about the whole way I’ve been living my life up until now. It occurred to me the other day that I have always entertained the old punk rock adage of "live fast, die young." I recently realized, with the help of a newly found friend, that one of the major flaws of the "live fast, die young" philosophy is that if by some reason you manage miraculously escaping every countless imminent total chaos disaster and become old, you're fucked because all of your real friends who can even fathom anything has taken place are all either literally dead, or dead in some figurative way or another. All my life, I’ve been living fast, way too fast, like super-dynamite, flaming-whore, warp-speed fast. And I am now pushing 27.

I think someone "up there" seems to have forgotten about me... and herein lies the problem. I am getting too fucking old. Where are you, angel of death??? What the hell happens now??? Hello!!! WHOEVER THE FUCK YOU ARE WHO IS IN CHARGE OF THIS SHIT!!!!!???? I AM DONE BEING YOUNG AND LIVING FAST.... IT IS TIME FOR ME TO DIE!!!!

I'm 26 now. I'm starting to lose teeth. The weight that used to fall off of me after I shit it out is starting to stick. I'm pushing close to 10 pounds under the weight that I'm supposed to be. I'm fast losing that heroin chic look that I have cherished since far before I even touched the drug and all of the pediatricians thought I was being abused because I looked like an albino Ethiopian child.

I always just did things. I never thought about them. If a terrible situation presented itself to me, I dove in and gave it everything I could and never gave it a second thought or tried to hide the blood, stink, spew and discharge. I lived my life. I lived 30 people's lives, and now I'm almost 27 and I'm fucking TIRED. I'm too old to die!! What do I have to look forward to? Post-sag, pre-menopausal spider veins and thinning hair and thick clown make up and wrinkle cream that will seep so deep into my craters and divots that my crow's feet will have turned into full personalities of their own. I can't be remembered like that!!! Jesus Christ, a girl has to have some pride.

Now I am forced to do something that I have never thought I'd be alive or coherent enough to do: Reflect on this terrible god forsaken stinking flaming roller coaster of a "short" life I have had. I have always done what I had to do merely to survive. I must remember that, or I will go crazy.

You should have had an abortion
You should have been an abortion.
You should have a few more brain cells.
You should have been born male.
You should have had your legs fused shut.
You should have run away.
You should have thought a little harder.
You shouldn't talk like that.
You shouldn't think those things.
You wanna make some money?

STOP!!!!

In retrospect, I should have planned my life out better. I should have had a "Plan B." But it just sounded so fucking easy... "live fast, die young." That was supposed to be it. There's no "live fast, and get real fucking old real quick so that when you're about 30 you belong in a nursing home but you are forced to walk the earth for the next 50 years only getting fatter and uglier and more alone." Adult Diapers, wheelchairs, hospitals, the stench of the elderly... I can't take it. I could NEVER deal with getting old. These first few small signs are absolutely unbearable.

I could always go at this pesky "life" problem I’m having rockstar style and take a drug overdose or die by my own hand, but I'm always afraid of the suicide attempt gone wrong, which will almost certainly happen. I am afraid I will try, and fail, and be forced to live my life out on this earthly hell in a wheelchair, my head held up by one of those braces with screws in it, shitting into a bag and depending on some fat, underpaid pervert to empty it out. Instead, I'll have to sit and brew in my anger for the next 80 years, and not even be able to talk to express it. NO THANK YOU.

Yup, I'm perpetually scared of failing at a suicide attempt, and the way my life goes, it seems like that would be the only thing that would happen. If I can't succeed at living, how the hell am I supposed to succeed at dying? And it's not supposed to be suicide. It's not "live fast and kill yourself before you get too old and gross"; I'm just supposed to die.

When will it all end? What happens to people who don't die? I guess they get old. And they live out their life like too many people I know, old and alone. EEECH that's fucking scary. I don't want to think about it. Hopefully the grim reaper will snatch me up before I even have to entertain the idea of dieting, wrinkle cream, botox, pee pads, irritable bowel syndrome, hair removal, liposuction, face lifts, OH GOD the list goes on and on, but I have to force myself to stop listing things before I hurl. Getting old fucking sucks. It's so gross. Fuck being old and wise. I like being young and fucking stupid, and I don't want it to change. I don't want to know a bunch of information and sit around in my own stink while parts of my body fall off into my coffee cup and my fat body takes the shape of the chair I am trying to squeeze it into. How Terrible! Retirement plans and 401 K's and menopause and Alzheimer’s and mowing the lawn and pissing myself and eyeglasses and depending on foul young idiots to change my diaper and turn me every five hours to prevent big, disgusting, gaping bedsores that the orderlies stick their foul dicks in when they’re mistaken for my old vagina when they're trying to rape me in the nursing home. Elder abuse. YUCK. DR. PULL THE PLUG PLEASE! AND FAST!!!

Someone needs to make an amendment to that punk rock adage. There should be a sidebar. For example it would be "Live Fast, Die Young*" and then the * will mean "If you don't, in fact die young, WE, the folks who are responsible for this philosophy, will provide you with a magic pill that is full proof... no getting old for anyone." That's what needs to happen. I think there needs to be a convention, a gathering of all of the people who live by this little saying, and we all need to connect and make the plan 100% full proof-guaranteed or your money back: "If you live fast, you WILL die young," and this horrible situation that I am going through – and I know that many before me and after me will experience – will not happen anymore. It's so irresponsible. Whoever made that up really fucked up my life. It's not fair. I will be the first one to propose it, especially now that I’m currently knocking on the door of the magic age – the age that Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Hendrix, Janice Joplin, Jim Morrison, and all the importants seemed to die at. (Not the die hard punks like Darby or Sid – they died earlier… lucky bastards).

My mind and body can’t seem to take the living fast part as well as they used to – probably because (and this is popular opinion as well) I SHOULD BE DEAD BY NOW. But I'm one of the "lucky ones." Instead I get to complain myself into menopause, into botox, into the fucking grave. I'll go down fighting. I have to accept this.

For all of you young punks out there who are "living fast" and expecting to die young, please take this to heart. You don't always die young. And then if you don't, you have to walk the earth (sort of like Lazarus), your brain and body being horribly ravaged by your lifestyle, and having seen and lived probably 30 to 40 regular people's lives, you’re suddenly forced to slow down not because you want to, but because you simply can't go anymore. Your battery is dead. But you are still alive. Please think of this. I don't know the solution. I wish I did. I wish I could make this into a public service announcement. But heed my words young punks... you may not die. Remember that.

DOCTOR, SERIOUSLY, IT'S TIME TO PULL THE PLUG!!!