Being bad at things

One of my dreams is to be a stripper: to hustle for cold, hard cash. I want bitches to throw me Benjamins as I gyrate to Juicy J. I want this more than Mahatma Ghandi wanted world peace. 

I called Penthouse Executive Club to schedule an audition but hung up after the second ring. I’m terrified I don’t have what it takes. 

My dance style is best described as “aggressive.” I like to hump, and I like to be humped. I don’t dance with my ass or my shoulders or my hips. Rather my movements originate from the area surrounding my belly button. I’m pregnant with rage, and the rage controls me. 

An Australian girl at a Parisian night club described my twerking as “demonic.”

I suppose what I lack is femininity. I don’t know how to dance like I have a vagina. I do know how to dance like an epileptic experiencing a whole body seizure. 

A private lap dance from me would likely result in the client muttering “what the fuck” under his breath and storming out of the club with an eerie sense of dread. He would later suffer night terrors about the experience, waking up in cold sweat screaming for his wife. 

I’m trying to determine why I want to be a stripper so badly when I would so clearly suck at it. I think it stems from insecurity coupled with a thirst for glamour.

I often fear I am unattractive and awkward, especially compared to my disgustingly beautiful best friend and those glowing Korean chicks who calmly sit at tables in racist night clubs. Their eyebrows alone make me feel like Susan Boyle if Susan Boyle was untalented and Chinese-American. 

The title as a bona fide stripper would combat it all: bow down bitches, for I am hot and confident and the diametric antithesis of nerdy. My resplendent rump on your lap shall cost you as much as a Starbucks barista makes in three fortnights. 

But sometimes dreams are just dreams. Especially when fueled by something as shallow and unsubstantial as desire for prestige? 

What I really want to be is a writer because I fucking love words and sentences and how they fit together. But I can’t do it because it’s too important to me.


2 thoughts on “Being bad at things

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