Death of Pop

After watching all the news coverage regarding Michael Jackson’s death, I have realized something. For me, it is far sadder to watch his old music videos than to realize that he is dead.

The Michael Jackson we all loved, respected, and were in total awe of, died many MANY years ago. His talent was almost frightening, but it became so easy to forget that because of his actions. Now, I’m not going to weigh in on whether or not he molested children, but I will say that he let down his fans through years of bizarre behavior and increasingly mediocre music.

When I watch videos like “Beat It” and “Thriller” it saddens me that someone can fall so incredibly far. It is sad that I, and most of the people my age, have to remember that at one point Michael Jackson was a living legend. It is hard to remember a time when Jackson’s talent overshadowed his outlandishness.

So while I am sad that he died before he had the chance to remind all of us why we gave him the title “King of Pop” I am more sad that we forgot it in the first place.

I would never admit this but...

the first club I auditioned for, didn't hire me.

Maybe it was the short hair, maybe the tattoos, maybe my slightly larger than desirable belly. Regardless of the reason, I was told by the manager that they would "call me in a few days" to let me know their final decision.

Even as I said goodbye to the DJ and he assured me that I was "totally cute" and that they'd "totally call (me) back" I knew with a sinking despair that I, in fact, did not get the job. I tried not to think about why I didn't get the job, I didn't need anymore blows to my already fragile ego, but despite myself, that night, before I went to bed the only thought on my mind was why they didn't like me.

This has been an ongoing question throughout my life. Why don't they like me? Am I too loud? Too overbearing? Do I talk too much? Am I too fat? If someone dislikes me, it is never because they are in the wrong or because of a simple personality clash, it is always somehow my fault. I am a thorough and complete people pleaser. It started early in life and has, as I have come to realize, damaged me a great deal.

Jetlagged....

Getting home from the airport took about twice as a long as it should have due to the front driver's side wheel of my car being completely FUCKED. It was thumping for a while before my drive to the Airport, but my mechanic told me that it was just an uneven tread. Well, to make a long story short, two of the four bolts on my wheel had broken off and my wheel was close to FALLING THE FUCK OFF by the time I found out. So, rather than waiting for a towtruck, I decided to tighten my belt and the bolts on my tire, and drive home at 30 miles an hour. So, instead of a 3.5 hour drive, I had a 7 hour drive.

FUCK.

But, despite that, Israel was amazing. That deserves its own post, which will be coming as soon as I can upload pictures and sleep. I am beyond tired.

So, a more positive post to follow. OH! And I have my first follower. I am geeking out with joy.

Thanks for reading!

(OH! And more news about dancing...)

Israel

I'll be in Israel in four days. I am so stoked.

Don't get me wrong, I've never been terribly religious and am in no ways a Zionist, but I love to travel. I think there's an extra wanderlust gene that I inherited. The older a place is, and the more history it has, the more I want to go there. Travel is one of my greatest passions. It makes me feel really small, and I don't get that feeling enough.

If your ego ever gets too big, just go to a different continent where no one knows or gives a fuck who you are, and business is conducted in a totally different way. It's humbling, and enlightening, and inspiring. I love to travel.

This trip means that I'll probably HAVE to start dancing again to pay for shit. Oh well, it's totally gonna be worth it.

The New Girl...

That's what they used to call me. Even a few days before I quit.

When I first auditioned, the dayshift manager told me that I'd make good money; that I looked "fresh." And I guess I did. I didn't have 10 different lycra outfits, 6 different pairs of heels, and the professional smile that all the other girls had. I still don't. I also didn't have that distinctive hardened look that comes from years of cigarette smoke, late nights, and a bad diet. I still don't have that either.

I never really got my "hustle" down pat. I was getting better, realizing how to talk to customers into getting dances, rather than making them think I wanted to be their girlfriend, but then I had to quit. School was over for the semester and I had to go home. I only worked for about 6 weeks, but it felt like forever.

Now I've transferred to a new school in a different city. Stripping is calling my name. Not just because of the quick money, but because of the rush. I miss putting on my face, and a different woman's personality. I miss the ritual of it all.

I want to dance again, but I doubt I'll have the freedom I used to have at my old club. The city I live in now tends to have higher standards and stricter business practices. Also, I'm not sure I'll have the time.

I don't quite know where this post is going so I'll just end it here.

News

The Bad...
I had a headache yesterday and instead of taking normal Tylenol I took TylenolPM... I was groggy for the next 8 hours

The Good...
While groggy I cleaned out my mother's refrigerator. There were things in there that hadn't been moved in over 3 years

The Bizarre...
Some girl on myspace randomly messages me, asking me to block her boyfriend because he had been looking at pictures of my and masturbating. Subsequent investigation revealed that I had met this dude 4 YEARS AGO and he was STILL looking at my pictures. Creepy.
Needless to say, I blocked him and made most of my pictures private.... not that any of them are even close to pornographic.

I do not understand men. Why fantasize about some innocent girl, minding her own business when there are MILLIONS of naked women all over the internet placed there for that very reason? Porn seems like its probably easier. I feel mildly violated, amused, confused, and perplexed all at the same time.

When I danced, I understood why dudes looked at and objectified me, that was my job. But out in the real world, when I have clothes on? Come on dude.

It's hot...

It's hot... ungodly hot. I lay naked, stretched across damp sheets, tentatively reveling in the foreign-ness of it all. I roll and stretch, and the pools of sweat that formed in the hollow places of my hips and collar shift into running streams, flowing across my shoulders and haunches.
I rarely see myself fully nude. I hop from clothing to shower without more than a glance at the mirror. I stroke my wrist; its sad how foreign my own body has become. I notice now, the swells of my breasts and the stretchmarks faintly visible only when I lay down.
A stray hair clings to my chest, long and dark, and definitely not mine. My breath pushes it down, a lone tumbleweed on the open expanse of my torso. The soft slopes and hills I so despise while standing are now akin the to Midwestern plains I have only seen flashing by through train windows.
The hair rolls, peaks on my hip and tumbles off my thigh. Maybe I am beautiful.