Motherfucking crazy little girl

I'm a fighter. I won't give up.

Gonna make some money,

Gonna make my way

Gonna figure this shit out.

This fractured girl

This fractured girl, this creature lying in the snow, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, in case she shatters the delicate balance. She knows, eventually her neurotic tendencies, her disorganization, her lost-child-mentality, become too much to handle. She knows, eventually, she is better off left to her own devices, to succeed or fail for no one's benefit but her own. When she can no longer reach out, scrambling, for help in the witching hour, she knows she can't let you see the aftermath either.

It's all or nothing with her, even still after the advances she has made, she still doesn't believe she can fix herself. So when the bend begins to crack, she feels there's no return to whole and healthy.

Maybe this belief is self-defeatist. Maybe this belief is a self-fulfilling prophecy. But these beliefs aren't easily shaken. There are no promises made, no one who said "I'll be there for you, no matter what, no matter when." There is no "forever." There's no such thing as forever. And when she's no longer strong enough, no longer together enough, that's it.

So? Where do I go from here? Fake it till I make it? Give up like I always have? Pretend that maybe later, I'll grow up and be all better? Ha. Other people don't deserve to have me mad at them for not being available at 4 o'clock in the morning. But I will be. So, again, I feel like I have to save other people from becoming collateral damage to my own self-destruction.

Also, school is stressful as fuck, as usual. I have way too many things going on. Very cool photoshoot coming up in a couple weeks.

finding something

The hardest part about a higher education, isn't the work, or the expense, or the mental strain. It's the isolation. The fact I can't go out, because I have to come here and work. I miss my laptop... the ability to go where I want and work. and not be so distracted, and alone.

I can feel things slipping. Nothing, truly, is wrong, but my head isn't there. not enough. There's too many other things going on, flitting in and out of my head like birds. My time becomes precious, my money not so much. Every ounce of energy is spent, for marks, fun, and profit, and there's nothing left for love. I can't remember the last time I went grocery shopping or cooked a meal.

The self splinters, every piece getting more and more transparent as they become smaller, the light filtering through the holes, the girl you loved, far away.

pj's and cookies

I'm not going to bother going to work tonight. I'm too fried and too lazy; besides, its a sunday. Instead, I'm catching up on Secret Diary of a Call Girl - what a fantastic, hilarious, poignant show. check it out on showcase or the movie network (in canada) if you get a chance.

Whirlwind Weekend

Friday: Photoshoot

Schoolgirl in the rain, meet me out by the bikeracks. You bring the vodka, I'll bring the brass knuckles. Dripping blood and tears. Hot hot hot. It reminds me of t.a.t.u.'s lesbian make-out video.

I got a great skirt out of the deal.

Saturday: Dance around with all your clothes off

haircut: $60
agency fee: $200
security clearance: $30
liscensing fee: $120

first nights take: $450

Dancing isn't hard. It's the hustle that's hard. Keeping up a conversation. Making the patron believe you only want to talk to them, and nobody else in the bar, and you're not just here for their money.

Chatting with a couple, decent looking guy and a gorgeous tattooed chick with tons of tatts and cute piercings, and they argue over who will pay for her private dance. I lead her by the hand, touch her shoulder, touch her arm, wish every patron could be like her.

"I wish I could take you home and beat you," she laments with a smile when I finish.
(I wish she could to), I answer in my head. Out loud,
"Come back. see my stage show. be my regular." (let me get to know you so I can come home with you..)

I'm not sure if I want to go to work tonight... I'm lazy. I would have to leave in less than 2 hours.

less than 1 hour now. oops. ciao for now darlings.

Leather Chaps

The smooth, sweet smell of new leather. Heady with memories of my father's jacket, stolen from the basement when I was 15. Memories of punks, Lucky Lager, mickey's of Smirnoff, ancient condoms left in the pockets.

Leather, meant for motorbikes, for long journeys, to send the eyes up to the top of the thigh, stopping just below the curve of the ass, contained in tight, tight jeans or highlighted in barely-there bikini bottoms. Painted-on leather, hems brushing the top of ass-kicker black workboots, or slick black vinyl heels. Leather, smelling like adventure, like sex, like rebellion.

somebody buy me some damn leather chaps.

travels of the fae

i am:
an artist
an exotic dancer
a climber
a costume designer

dreaming of a thousand journeys. motorbikes, waterfalls, mountains.

This is the platform for the chronicling of these journeys. It is not for the faint of heart! Beware, all ye who enter here. don't share my secrets.