Why I became an author instead of a stripper
Growing up I had classic “No Daddy” syndrome. I never had that protective love of a father that guided and directed a woman’s life in the right path. And though some women still turned out fine, I was desperately in need of a man’s presence in my life – a need that was never met.
Mom couldn’t help too much with that problem. She meant well, really. But she let me start wearing makeup at two. She said “it made me so happy.” And it did. I LOVED to play in her makeup. In every single one of my toddler pictures, there I am wearing bright red lipstick and horrific blue eye shadow.
As a preteen she let me read Cosmopolitan (newsflash: twelve-year-olds may not need to know about sixteen different positions to have stronger orgasms.) But poor Mom didn’t know that. She always had her nose in a Bible, she had NO CLUE what was in Cosmo. Since she had me in church every time the doors opened, I guess she figured it’d counteract the evil influences of the world. HMmmmmm…. Almost.
Poor Mom helped me sew shoulder pads into my bra after two boys nicknamed me misquote bite in middle school. I was the youngest kid in my class, and so while the other girls were thirteen and had started having periods and wearing bras, I was an extremely underdeveloped twelve year-old.
I initially stuck the shoulder pads in my training bra on my own, but when they came tumbling out during a P.E. Volleyball serve, I had a very disturbing and embarrassing moment that will forever haunt me the rest of my life. My Mom helped me sew them into the training bra permanently after that, to prove to everyone that those REALLY were my boobs after all.
At fourteen, God decided to make up for three years of adolescent hell by delivering me a set of full double D’s that made me the most popular chick in the ninth grade. I mean, literally, I woke up one morning, and just fell out of bed I was so top heavy. It was like the Gods of Boobs had smiled upon me, and decided to give a finger to the face of all those misquote bite bullies.
No, there was no denying these things. They shook and jiggled and bounced. They were real, and it was the best Christmas present I’d ever gotten from Mother Nature. Unfortunately seven days worth of hell were included in the package, but that was such a small price to pay to have super big hooters.
Mom let me buy a hot pink string bikini and parade around at Spring Break like a Hawaiian Tropic bikini model, minus the Hawaiian tropic tan. She said she had been so fat all her life, and it made her so happy to see me thin and gorgeous and having so much fun.
In return for her being so incredibly cool, I was very obedient. I didn’t screw around like all the other teenagers. I didn’t even drink, and I worked non-stop to keep straight A’s and high ACT scores so that I could get scholarships. We were so poor we filed for bankruptcy. They foreclosed on our house and my car three months after turning sixteen. I thought to myself that my whole life was crumbling around me. But I couldn’t have known how much worse it was going to get.
I was sitting there with her in the doctor’s office when I heard the news with my own little ears. I was only sixteen-years-old. I was wondering how the hell I was going to get to the beach and show off my boobs when I didn’t even have a car anymore, and then suddenly my entire body went numb, when I heard the doctor say these words to my Mom.
“There’s no easy way to say this ma’am, but you only have six months to live … at best.”
There’s really no way to describe that moment. It was surreal, as if I were living someone else’s life – as if I were in a bad nightmare that I would soon wake up from. My entire body felt cold … and sick … and I was certain that somehow, I would surely die with her. For no one had ever loved me like she loved me, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I couldn’t live without her love.
She died a year later after an incredible amount of suffering and pain, and I was officially left orphaned in the world at seventeen with a gigantic set of hooters, a face like a Barbie doll, and zero money in my bank account. Not knowing what the hell to do with myself, I took my scholarship to college, but I had a nervous breakdown in the process. Crying uncontrollably…Taking 22 mile runs to the middle of nowhere and then passing out from heat exhaustion … Drinking myself to sleep every night. Chain smoking. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. No direction. Just anger and bitterness toward God for leaving me all alone in the world without a single to soul to love me. My brothers and sisters – gone. My friends moved off to different colleges. My mother – dead. My father – out partying every night and obsessed with his own life. I went from having a loving little warm nook in the world … from having a little greenhouse of love and support … to the cold Alaskan tundra of the world, where my little tropical blooms were frostbitten and I was slowly dying on the inside. I would NEVER be able to survive the new climate of complete abandonment at only the age of seventeen. No one. No relatives. No friends. Nothing. Just a heartbroken girl, floating around the world like a leaf in the wind. I suppose I was destined for the pole. But despite the doctor’s diagnosis of bipolar, I persevered. I went onto college and battled with some of most evil women on the face of the planet –sorority chicks.
No mater how gorgeous I was, no sorority wanted a chain smoking crazy chick who couldn’t stop crying. And even if they would have wanted me, I was broke as a joke. So I fell in with the kindhearted and fun loving hippies. They gave me this gigantic red, white and blue bong that we all named “Liberty,” and we emancipated ourselves from the minds of the rest of the world every single day – all day long.
I moved in with the hippies, and the next door neighbor was conveniently enough, a big-time drug dealer. It seemed I had finally found friends, acceptance, and a place in the world, but then my life came crumbling down again my fourth year of college.
I was set to graduate with a degree in Journalism. I had ONE more quarter. All of my hippie friends would graduate after that quarter, too. And so there was no need to renew another 12-month lease. I had registered for all of my final classes IN ORDER. I had written my thesis on the Middle Eastern crisis and was poised with an internship. Everything was in place – until my loan check didn’t come in.
The scholarship had been used up the first year. After that I needed major loans for everything. Tuition, rent … Everything. But day after day, NO CHECK. Finally, I called them and they told me I couldn’t get the check without an audit. I had no F’n clue what an audit was. All I knew was that I couldn’t afford another year in college.
So my hippie friends and I, after several tokes off of Liberty, decided that with my big hooters, I could clear the needed $2000 in two weekends at the local strip club, and nobody would ever have to know.
The plan was brilliant. They went to the club and checked it out with me. The old lady told me I was “perfect,” but I had to be licensed. So I drove down to the local police station in search of a license.
The guy in charge of strippers’ licenses was a total prick. I’m surprised anybody strips in Columbus Georgia after having to go through the troll guarding the bridge. Even as I was filling out the paperwork, I kept feeling his eyes on me. I finally looked up, and he gave me this super condescending look as if I’d just offered him a BJ for coke, and he was like “No thanks.” He was one of those guys who wore whitie tighties and jacked off to Good House Keeping magazines as a kid. I could tell.
Whatever, man. People gotta make a living, asshole. I didn’t say that. But I certainly wasn’t going to let his snobby attitude stop me from finishing college. I’d lived in a sorority dorm for my entire first year of college, and I nearly committed suicide because of those self-righteous bitches. No way was I letting some pretentious power-trippin’ cop stop me from being a glorious success.
I got my license. I went home, happy and excited, despite the judgment that had been passed onto me. In fact, I was thrilled. I even got a Mystic spray tan on the way home.
When I got home, all of my hippie friends were so excited for me. They had even built me a little faux pole to practice on, and had that song Nasty Dancer by Kilo ready to go in the CD player. Nobody could fuck up a strip tease to Nasty Dancer.
Apparently, no one except for me.
I swear to this day that if my friends wouldn’t have smoked a ounce of blueberry bubblebum berry blast hydro weed straight off the boat from Amsterdam, then they would have liked my strip tease.
But alas, they thought it was the most hilarious thing they’d ever seen. Snobby looks are one thing, but putting everyone in stitches was not the intended effect.
It was supposed to be sexy … and freaky … and hot, and make Mamma lots and lots of dough. But they laughed their asses off. They laughed so hard they were crying.
Geez, I couldn’t even get them to stop laughing. Hal said I looked like a fat grasshopper taking a dump. Layla said I had gigantic white streaks under my arm pits and that my nipples were radioactive orange. Adam said I looked like a pregnant Chihuahua in heat humping a leg.
“How the hell is a pregnant dog in heat Adam?”
This made him start laughing again. “You’re supposed to spin around on the pole all fluid looking, not dry hump it and then pis on it like a fire hydrant.”
So here I am, a poor struggling writer, begging for nickels and Kindle royalties, when I could be sitting in a yacht right now with some Play Boy bunnies sipping gin and juice and giving Hugh a comb over.
OH NO! I had to hang out with the friggin’ stoners. And I’m telling you, they only thought it was funny because they were so incredibly blitzed. I swear that strip tease was amazing! I have a video that proves it, and I’ll show you one day when I decide to reveal my identity. But now it’s too late to anything super sleazy and cool.
Strippers can’t have stretch marks and cellulite, and probably shouldn’t be over 25. Rumor is, they break these rules constantly, but I don’t even care anymore.
I’m an impoverished little writer beast typing away at a little blog that three people will read if I’m lucky, and I’m having to steal WiFi from Mickey D’s to write it. Ah, but I could have had such a glamorous, rich life. But I chose to be poor, and now I have two beautiful children, a wonderful husband and … and …
And I’m the happiest woman on the face of the earth.
Thank you God, for sending stoners to help me choose the right path.