I haven’t died yet.

Fuck you, I’m going back to writing nightmares.  That’s right, it took me spending $200 at a strip club in Key West to make me realize I hate everything about paid sexual situations.  “Nick?!  You’ve paid for sex before?!” Yes I have grandma, but not in the way your Bible spells it out.  You see, we all PAY for sex.  Sex is a form of currency.  Obviously, I’m not talking about a situation where you’re in line at Target to buy ‘Step it Up 2: the Streets’ and when you open your wallet a women with an eye patch twists your nuts like a light bulb the way you love it.  Shut up; follow the metaphor.  Sex is power- it grants permission for a lot of things, just like my $5 grants me access to that shitty, flaccid subway sandwich.  So, in its own way, everything is a paid sexual situation and I hate it all.  I hate overweight people who complain about elevators breaking down.  I hate how I’m supposed to smile at a baby when he’s been crying directly in my ear for 3 hours.  I hate how I’m balding and I have to hide it by writing shitty blog posts.

So when I’m sitting in a dimly lit club, called Teasers, and money is hemorrhaging out of me, I felt like a creep.  One of the dancers walk over to me, and by walk, I mean crawl; and she’s Argentinian.  Instead of trying to tell her I drive a hover car or invented the hand clap in melodic emo songs, I’m slurring questions in Spanish about which footballer she likes more- Messi or Teves.   I’m a creep.  However, my writing this doesn’t make me a ‘creep’ in your eyes, it makes me a hot-shot comedian.  So drink your fucking Starbucks, listen to Kings of Leon and laugh at Leather Jacobs’ nightmares…because he is too…while he’s watching you shower.

~ by leatherjacobs on January 5, 2010.