I have a back up plan now, if I don’t get into writing school. This is good, because I’m in a severe state of self-sabotage right now.
Why does life as a shorty got to be so rough? More importantly: why am I so whiny?
It involves me going to massage school and rubbing backs for a living. Yes, that sounds better to me than what I’m doing now. Maybe I’ll meet a rich, inappropriate client and we’ll get married and make babies and get divorced with no prenup and I’ll be loaded with cash and saddled with twins and their father will keep trying to seduce me, even though we’ve split up, because then I’ll suddenly be the other woman and look good to him again. Their father, who was always ashamed of me. The masseuse, his fourth wife. The masseuse with a Master’s degree. How the hell did you meet that one? the golfing partners would say. We have friends in common, he’d say. This guy Paul–she calls him Paulie, you don’t know him. Or he’d tell people we met at a casino bar in Vegas or something. Something less shameful than he met me while I rubbed his back with no happy ending in his room at the Ritz-Carleton in San Francisco and he liked my stupefying knockers. Then I’d have a room of my own, Woolf-style.
Stupefy! You’ll rub those backs and make the money by and by.