“I have to go shopping.” I thought to myself—I didn’t own anything slutty enough to wear to work that night. A week ago, 3.5 inch high heels were pretty damn high, in my mind. Last week I wondered how anyone could not break an ankle dancing in 6 inch stilettos, not to mention over the course of a six hour work shift. As if I had to worry—ninety percent of your time “dancing” is spent spread eagle on your back across the "stage,” with your legs in the air or around some pathetic loser’s neck. Hump the air for added effect. The other strippers told me I had “great breasts” for this profession.

Stripping

I’m kidding about the pathetic loser comment—I actually think strip clubs are embracing a pertinent part of human nature, which would be the need to fantasize about the things or the women you don’t have. Not to say that all these men really want a stripper. Who the hell would date a stripper? I sure wouldn’t. Well I take that back. I guess I would date myself. I’m hot enough for myself, anyway. My theory on life and dating is that ultimately, there is someone for everyone—so never fear, during those times when you think you’ll die alone. Beautiful people date beautiful people, average date average people, and ugly people date ugly people. And not to say that the exceptions should not be glorified; they should be, but for all other cases, I’m just trying to be fair. A person like myself is surely worthy of myself.

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