Resident Moron

Bringing it.

The Stripper Chronicles

In the Sex-for-Money System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups. The professionals who exploit their sexuality, and the curious observers who appreciate the offenders. This is my tweet journey.

Bro: Come for a drive? “No.” Bro: Please? This girl likes me, I don’t want to meet her alone! “Wait, is she a stripper?” Bro: Yes. “I’m in.” 

No seriously guys, she’s a stripper. I’ve met her. 

Oh my goodness, it gets better. We’re picking the stripper up from her place of employment, Bare Fax. 

My brother actually just compared being a stripper to being a hairdresser in a barber shop. 

I’ve got “in love with a stripper” stuck in my head. 

Is it fair at all that the stripper gets the seat warmer?? 

Wow, strippers give really long hugs. 

We’re talking about job pay. Stripper wins? 

She has such little hands. 

Stripper just offered me $40 to hang at a bar so she gets alone-time with my brother. So many mixed emotions. 

My brother just told his barbershop analogy to the stripper. And she just winked at me. 

So, she wears a perfume endorsed by Tila Tequila. It’s all coming together. 

Am I surprised that the stripper is a consumer whore? 

Brother just asked Stripper if she lives at the 7/11. Love the brother now. 

Think strippers feel like celebrities when they’re recognized on the street? 

She’s addicted to “money.” *sniff, sniff* 

Should have jumped on that $40 offer. Carsick. 

Stripper is a tea-drinker because it’s good for you. Okay wait, she qualified it with “keeps you skinny.” 

Holy shit. Holy shit. 

First: stripper offered me her roommate to fuck. He’s gorgeous. Which is why she dated him. Oh, and he has a big cock too. And THEN 

And THEN she turns to my brother and says “Oh, not bigger than yours.” BaRF BARF!!! There goes that carsick. 

AND the coffee guy overheard it all. And I’m dying of horse allergies. Stripper bought me a tea. 

Did I mention she told me I’m hot and should be a stripper? SO many mixed emotions. Man I love you guys. 

I want all of you to know that I let a $40 offer disappear so I could tweet about everything Stripper said. Love me, love me. 

I smell like stripper, I’m going to barf up all my Chinese food in a coffee shop restroom, and I look like Quasimodo from horse allergies.

No, I CAN’T barf in the coffee shop restroom. There’s a couple getting busy in there. Normally, big whoop, but it’s single-stall. 

She makes $300-500 a night. I’m not supposed to tell, in case everyone runs out to become a stripper. Hell…sign me up. 

We just looked at penises online together, she and I. 

This is so romantic. The stripper professed her love for my brother, and he’s recounting the first time he laid eyes on her. JUST EYES. 

Update: that couple is still in the bathroom. I know this because I still feel barfy. 

Ugh. Tried to take a picture of their loving stare; choked on tea; drew attention to self. Dagnabbit. 

Stripper: that beeping means put on your seat belt!! 

She has a pole in her apartment. OMFG! New BFF!! 

Stripper tried to pass off a Cartman quote as her own. Foiled! I am the South Park Hero! (@TheCartman) 

I was going to send @shamelessplug a *stripper kiss* but, who am I joking, working gals don’t kiss. #prettywoman 

Whew. The sticky adventures have concluded for the evening. Stripper is tucked safely in…well, someone’s bed, and I did not barf. 


I finally found a cure for writer’s block, and it was chock-full of dolla dolla bills!!

CAUTION: I spent the rest of that night barfing. Strippers are people too, and karma’s a bitch.

January 6, 2009 Posted by | Funny, Writing | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Dropping the Ball

I know this blog has become important to me when my depressive moods cause me to push it away and avoid it, the same way I do with the important people in my life. The whole point of writing is to keep my communication lines open and express myself. I have to stop working so hard to distract myself, and find the courage to actually feel my feelings.

Damn, I am in a bad spot. I feel like shit.

I’m sorry if you know me and are touched by this. I’m sorry, but I can’t expend my effort feeling guilt anymore. I love you anyway.

Special attention and the third degree freak me out. Right now I could really use a hug, though.

October 27, 2008 Posted by | Depression, Writing | | Leave a comment



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