anything but a wasted life

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3.15.11 Snake Pit 4:31 p.m.

Earlier in the shower, as I shaved my pussy, I thought about how body conscious everyone is. Including my sixty-three-year-old mum. Which seems so weird to me. She’s never really had a job that required her to look a certain way. She lives in a small town, she’s not a fashionista, she doesn’t want, nor does she have, a man, yet she worries about her figure. My friends in LA I get. LA is a crazy place to live when it comes to the body. Lots of skinny folks here. Which is not a good excuse to worry about your body, but it’s (sadly) easy to compare yourself against a skewed norm. People assume that all strippers have killer bodies, but the funny thing is, when you’re a stripper all you hear is how great your body is (even if it isn’t), and how beautiful you are. Not all strippers have incredible bodies. We run the gamut. But because of the aforementioned, dancers usually (I’m running high and loose with this usually, but I’ll stand by it from my experience) have a better sense of themselves than most women. And it’s not from having perfect bodies. I am super lazy and do not have the tightest body (especially now, at forty), but it doesn’t stop these men from seeing something sexy and beautiful in us.

anything but a wasted life

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Dive interlude..

I feel so comfortable in filth. I’m currently staying at a super divvy motel in Las Vegas. Cheap. No air conditioning. Which is nuts, but it’s spring, so it’s not too bad. All the entrance doors automatically lock at 4pm. To keep the undesirables out. Or in. The hallways smell of bleach (to cover up what, I do not want to know). The few people I’ve seen are down-in-the-dump types. I think the motel offers weekly or monthly rates. It’s a medium sized, two-story building, but seems to be only about fifteen percent occupied. Druggies. Losers. Boozers. Hookers. Me. And I couldn’t feel more at home. Was I ghetto born or ghetto made? My mom struggled financially, but I didn’t grow up around this. I spent my formative years in the country, basically. But then again, when you live with a drug dealer, you see all types. And I spent my fair share walking around and through bad neighborhoods in the city as a teenager. I like the so-called “scum of the earth”, less pretense. Straight shooters. I’m like that. I can dig that. I respect that.

anything but a wasted life

None of this was easy on anyone. It’s never my intention to stress people out. An unfortunate byproduct of attempting suicide. Or succeeding.

My mom was driving my Jeep while she was in town (and I’m assuming staying in my apartment as well, but in all honesty, I don’t know), and one afternoon she came storming into my ICU room all a huff. Apparently she found an old bag of my friend’s weed in my car and chose it to be the focus of her anger. I don’t even smoke weed.

“What the fuck is this?!”

Cash was laying next to me on my bed slash gurney, we looked at her like she had rabbits coming out of her ears.

“I don’t know, what is it?”

“It’s a bag of drugs! Why do you have drugs in your car?” She threw the baggie at me as she was yelling this, but because of its anti-weight and dried-out state, it swished back and forth until it landed softly on my legs, ridiculing her point. Her rage over something so inconsequential immediately pissed me off. Lovers and parents have a special way of igniting your buttons within a millisecond of time.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! Sit the fuck down and shut up. That’s not even my weed. And this coming from the woman who gave me mushrooms when I was a kid? That’s a real fuckin’ hoot.” She sat down. Instantly looking defeated. It was a strange thing for her to be angry about. I mean I had recently swallowed some three hundred pills, but this old ass baggie of weed? I recognized the misplaced stress, but I was not willing to be yelled at. Especially for a dumb bag of marijuana by a woman I used to roll joints for when I was eight.

anything but a wasted life

I just danced for a guy who said he’d seen me a year ago and was wondering what happened to me. Nothing. During the dance he expressed that I was much more fun the last time (whoops). I started to wonder if he was confusing me with another girl, but he had made sure my name was Shannon, and I’m the only Shannon. No club has two girls working at the same time with the same name. I don’t mean in a shift, I mean whoever is on the roster. In fact, my club saved my name for the ten months I couldn’t work due to my hospital stint and physical recovery. As I was lap dancing, this thought brought back a memory. When girls started doing extras at Mitchell Brothers, some would purposefully give the guys another girls name in order to cover their ass in case he said, “so and so gave me a handjob”. It was a fucked up and underhanded thing to do. Although, I’ll admit that I, on occasion, gave a fake, fake name when I got the undercover cop vibe, but I would choose a name that didn’t exist at the club. Not that this would have kept me from being arrested, but it could aid in the confusion if the sting were to happen later.

anything but a wasted life


i see you in my dreams
they mean not much to me

of course you know i’m lying
(could it be any other way)

partner in my sleep
lover day to day

occupying my mind
borrowing my time

no one thought to notice
what this would actually mean

is it simply trust?
or unrequited lust

emotions run amok
childish thoughts and dreams

who are we to say
that nothing has to stay

i listen through and through
and all i see is you

sitting at the end
of a painfully (well) thought out plot

is it going as you fancied?
do things turn out this way

slipping down the tale
of this unimagined life

so frivolous and yet
ten times
as nice

anything but a wasted life


chemistry is our mistress
elusive in some and ever present in us.

that spark
hit us on sunset boulevard and has no signs of slowing.

we’ve tried to stay away
but some things cannot be stopped.

a connection which dare not be denied.

of this physical: your hands
slay me
ignite me and lose me

your mouth is my narcotic
the craving is unnerving.

your cerebellum drives me crazy
my pulse makes you swear.

i could breathe you in for hours on end
it hardly seems fair.

its been an awfully impressive mess
a wonderfully fucked love affair.

anything but a wasted life


i stumble and i trip
i’m butterflies and (unsure)

this is not the best me
and yet it is


i’ve been thirsty

and i quench myself
in you

it’s intoxicating
and never enough

i choke
and i fall

my sense of grace
is lost

it is a very lucky me
that found a place in you