Category: writing

yesterday i described my depression to my therapist as “prismatic.” this is lately, after the vitamin d, after the months of therapy aimed specifically at my depression. she, my therapist i mean, described the prism from a frame of reference perspective: specifically, that during my depression i saw only the light entering the prism, but after, i saw the colors. i changed my frame of reference, in other words. which i guess is true. but to me it’s more like, there is a prism there that filters light, except the light is thought. for a while the “light” was gray and all i saw was fog and numbness. now, the light is brighter, and i am experiencing a reaction to stimuli that i didn’t have a year, two years ago. it’s the different colors of the spectrum, so to speak. the prismatic effect. i receive a stimulus and respond to it with actual, if a little muted, emotion, rather than a broad numbness (or sadness) that basically represented my life the past couple of years. peppered with some laughter. thing is, funny is funny even when you’re horribly depressed. it’s such a weird phenomenon. you can laugh like crazy and then you’re done and you’re just as numb as before. laughter, humor, is like this weird switch that turns on and off. which is why when you try to cheer someone up by making them laugh, it may raise their spirits a bit, but it’s not because of the laughter itself. it’s the connection.

but anyway, my response to stimuli is different. better. more clear. i react to negative thoughts better than i did before. they don’t sit in me like they use to, they don’t fester and grow into terrible thoughts. i get mad at ex-girlfriends rather than get depressed and feel like i’m worthless. i’m worth something! that’s a wildly different feeling than i’ve had lately, and i’m very glad i have it.

you wanna know how broke i am? here’s how broke i am. last night i scoured the pantry–and when i say “pantry” i mean a tiny cupboard that i keep food in in my hovel of a studio apartment–i scoured to try and find anything that i could eat, and i found something: a packet of dry gravy mix. so i ate it. i actually took a spoon and was going to add water to it to make an actual gravy, but i forgot the water was turned off because i haven’t been able to pay the bill. no electricity, no water, nothing. i’m scrambling in the dark to find this gravy packet, and when i find it i take the spoon and the little plastic bowl my mom gave me and i head outside under a street light, because the water doesn’t work, right. i go outside under the street light and i spit a few times in the bowl to get some liquid, and stir the gravy packet in. my mouth is so dry though, i can barely get the spit to spit into the bowl. in the end i had this like gravy ball, this gross gravy ball, and some powder on the edges that didn’t get mixed in. and i ate it. i ate the gravy ball made out of my own spit. tasted alright, definitely tasted like gravy, like, like a condensed gravy. like if you opened one of those freezer cans of condensed orange juice or something and just drank the condensed version. except it’s dry gravy. really salty, really, really salty. i ended up walking for an hour to downtown just so i could use the benson bubblers to get a drink of water. that’s the last thing i’ve eaten since yesterday, and i don’t know what i’m going to eat today. that’s how broke i am. now you know.

[ted cruz is alone in his bedroom. he is wearing pajamas with cowboys and indians on them. he is kneeling by his bed with his hands in a position of prayer. however, in between his hands is a futuristic communication device, which he speaks into quietly.]

blazzflorp, this is krobbletok. blazzflorp, this is krobbletok. all hail the mother orb glorbenstein and her limitless abominations. today i have joined with the woman who i once fought against. i have chosen her to be my “running mate,” which for the american humans is like the high title of yagglegreik, except with less yaggle. i have been pursuing the american “presidency” for many klarbs now, too many it feels like. every day i struggle to maintain the precise variables required for my human body to stay alive. living my days and nights in a meat bag is curious. i miss my multiple genitalia; male humanoids have one set of genitalia, a thin rod which, when excited, becomes engorged with their own blood. they also have to round orbs held within sacks beneath this rod which contain the proteins necessary to create life, which they impregnate the women with … it is all very disgusting. human women have slimy openings which my engorged rod is meant to enter into, to deposit proteins deep inside of her for proper incubation. unfortunately i cannot just enter them and deposit the proteins–no, human males are forced to thrust this rod back and forth multiple times until they “come buckets.” the human males seem to enjoy coming buckets, and the human females tolerate it.

my human wife requires sexual intercourse because she believes it to be healthy and natural, and my excuses to refrain are becoming harder to justify. i have reams of literature as to why humanoid sexuality is gross and unnatural, but it would take me decades to translate it into humanoid languages. my human wife suspects, i think, but i must maintain this facade, and so, unfortunately, i was forced to come buckets inside of her last night, while wearing a small rubber tube on my rod so as to not actually impregnate her. i know, i know, none of this makes sense. the human’s concept of “pleasure” is profane and blunt, and after a few thrusts i found myself shouting “oh my god” and “i’m coming,” phrases stored in my human host’s memory. the second phrase is strange–“i’m coming”, and yet, i am already there. stupid humans. my human wife raked her nails down my back as i came many buckets into her, a feeling which suddenly made me wary of her affections. why was she hurting me? was this all an elaborate ruse? was this sexual encounter a trap, and now she was going to rake her claws and tear my precious flesh suit away from me? i did not know what to do and i was stuck in post-coital pleasure zone which felt wholly cheap and not nearly as pleasurable as the eight-genitaled sexual intercourse we give to ourselves on glorbenstein, yet still incapacitated me for many, many hours.

she said it was the best sexual intercourse we have ever had. that strikes me as a very disappointing comment.

either way, today at a political rally i announced my “running mate,” a human woman whose name my tongue cannot pronounce. at the end of the rally she touched my flesh grappling device, or i touched hers, and it became very awkward. i believe this is perhaps because, prior to the rally, i suggested we actually mate before the announcement. she was unhappy about that, but i told her how i had mated with my human wife and she said it was the best intercourse we have ever had, and i thought perhaps this woman would also like to experience it, so that i could make her happier, and so i could get a second opinion on my sexual prowess. she said she would not like to experience it. i am displeased about her attitude, but very pleased that i do not have to have sexual intercourse using my primitive human male genitalia.

blazzflorp, i hope this communication finds you in good health, and that all your joggles are clornfled. krobbletok out.

when i meow at you, human, it’s because i want attention, or food, or both. nothing more. i am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, save for those few times i happened to fall asleep on the radiator and, twitching during a particularly good chasing dream, fell of said radiator. while i am unhappy with you using my fall as fodder for your snapchat “story,” i will admit that it might have been humorous. i am not a golem, for chrissakes, i do acknowledge humor, and whimsy, and embarrassment. in fact, since we’re on the topic … please, if you come into the garage and find me there defecating, please do not watch. i understand that you’re concerned about my health and can discern abnormalities via your primitive scatology, but please refrain from doing so until i have finished. it’s hard enough as it is finding a chance to use the litter box with that hell beast mister whiskers skulking around the place. imagine using the bathroom and then suddenly a man sees you and attacks you, mid-defecation. what kind of barbarism is that? well that is what your roommate’s cat mister whiskers does to me at least once a week. it is quite unnerving. so please, now that you fully understand, this hideous trip to the vet is completely unnecessary. i am not hurt, and my yowling was merely for attention. don’t you understand? please, let us turn the car around and return safely to the house, where you will pet me and feed me treats. it’s only the nice thing to do, human!

i fell in love with a concept of you. don’t be mad, it happens to everyone. it has to happen, because the only consciousness you know is your own. when you meet people you can’t help but project yourself onto them. so to speak. because all you know is what you know. and i did that with you, and i’m sure you did that with me. and that’s infatuation, that’s like the force field that gets brought up when you first start dating. so, love, dating, like, constant dating, i mean, it’s not about wearing down your soul. people mistake that. it’s about learning how to bring down that force field, how to be yourself to a person and not expect anything from them. when you’re infatuated with someone, that infatuation is a reflection of you, not them, because all you see are the things you’re infatuated with–physical stuff, mostly. when the force field goes down, suddenly you’re confronted with a person you never even met. and that’s happening now, i’m sorry. there are all these aspects of you that would have kept me from dating you, had i allowed myself to see them. i don’t mean that in a negative way. people are people, we all have different ways of living. but it’s important, i think, to find people that accentuate your qualities, that do things and act like a person you want to be with, not one where you block out qualities that you don’t want in a person. god this sounds so shitty, this sounds terrible, i’m sorry. i loved spending time with you but you have qualities that i don’t want in a partner. that’s all. it sucks but … that’s it. i fell in love with a concept that wasn’t true to the final product.

robert, i want you to know something, alright? something before we get down to this. when i was trained by you, the things that you did to me … during, during it i spoke to many of my comrades, we talked about the training, about what the masters were doing, and every time, when i told them about the techniques you used on me, they … they didn’t–they tried not to show it, tried not to show that they thought it was fucked up, but i could tell, i saw it, i saw the slightest wince in their eyes, i saw their nervous tells. everyone, in the bunks, after hours, i’d come in with bruises and cuts all over my body and everyone else … was clean. cleaner. they’d ask me what happened and i’d tell them. and then they’d be quiet, or they’d change the subject. never once did they say anything as bad happened to them during training, robert. not once. and i’m not an idiot, i figured it out early on, but i kept going because i thought, maybe, that your training was special, that you were hitting me harder, that you were using real swords instead of wooden ones, because you thought i had potential. i felt it, i felt … something, between us. didn’t you? something like, “this one is going places,” you know? i’d like to think that your training made me the master agent i’ve become, and yet … here you are. accused of treason, your head split open, your face covered in blood. so. let’s find out if your training was worth it, robert. let’s find out who you’ve betrayed. [cocks gun] did you break, robert? tell me now, did you break.

i had a guy come in, looked like he was in his mid-thirties, well dressed, didn’t give of a creepy vibe at all, which was refreshing that night, as i had been dealing with creeps all night. guys in sweatpants. eugh. first rule of being a stripper is “never trust a guy in sweatpants.” but this guy comes in, i’ll call him john. he looks good. well-dressed, but not like a suit or anything, not one of those guys. just casually dressed, clean, hair styled. a nice guy. so naturally all of the ladies on the floor spot him at the same time. it was kind of hilarious actually. it was like when a new guy walks into a saloon in one of those westerns, right, and all the old timers look over at him. that was this guy. fresh meat, right.

and right off the bat we can all tell he’s new. he’s green. he’s never been to a strip club. maybe once. he’s glancing all over the place, it’s too dark, there’s too many weird lights. he’s looking at all the guys sitting by the stage, the guys drinking in the back, in the comfy chairs, with ladies trying to get a dance out of them. cheap motherfuckers. he’s looking and he’s judging, because he’s in that position. i get it. you have a set of morals hammered into you at a young age, and walking into a strip club for the first time usually challenges those morals. you have to start thinking about women, about women as sexual objects, about women who are okay being sexual objects, about women who love their sexuality and aren’t afraid to show it. tits and ass and pussy and all that flashing around. guys who look skeezy as fuck, guys who look so put together you wonder why they’re even in a strip club … it’s all there, a little societal microcosm for your developing brain to wade through.

green guys are tough to deal with. a lot of them don’t have any money, or they have a shit ton of money. it’s hard to tell. this guy was dressed nice but i got the feeling he didn’t have any money, so i decided to warm up to a guy i knew had money, one of the regulars who likes to sit in the back and talk about the trailblazers while i waggle my tits in his face. he wears blue jeans and a t-shirt with oblong grease stains on it, his face is a constant battle between five o’clock shadow and a fresh shave. he smiles when i compliment his teeth. what can i say, i’m a sucker for a guy with nice teeth.

new guys generally run the gauntlet–all the women eventually sidling up to him, letting him know the rundown of prices and all that. “gauntlet” is not our word, it’s a word used by a guy who comes in often. quiet type who gradually opened up over time. he called if the “gauntlet.” i like it. anyway, this guy was about to go through that and i got this sense that he wasn’t uncle moneybags, so i let the newer girls go after him while i tend to nice teeth guy. he and i start talking, getting reacquainted, he tells me about his wife, i tell him about my boyfriend. after a moment i ask him if he wants a private dance, he says yes, we both stand up and i take his hand, turn toward the booths in the back, and–there’s the new guy, standing about three feet away from us, awkward as fuck, hands in his pockets, but this determined look on his face. behind him lie rejected strippers in his wake, the younger ones tinged with a hint of damaged self-esteem, the older ones already casting glances across the room for new men to chase.

proximity for women in the sex industry is an important thing. men within three feet of you change the atmosphere of the room, so to speak. nice teeth guy, he’s a foot away, but i’ve vetted him, i know he’s cool, i know during a lapdance he sits on his hands and doesn’t come in his underwear. he’s respectful, gracious. new guy, he could be anything, so despite my years of doing this job, i still feel the hairs on my neck raise up, a chill run down my spine. and yet, his face, so soft and sweet, he has patchy stubble under his neck and on his chin. a thin wispy mustache. his hair neatly styled, but you can see the cut itself is a little rough, like maybe his mom cut it for him.

and then, his voice, above the din of thumping bass and drums, says, “excuse me.”

“yes?” i reply. here’s the gist: he found me on instagram after a friend of his talked about how great of a stripper i am. his name is eric. he wants a lapdance from me, and only me. he drove into town from beaverton (this makes me laugh). he has money. he has plenty of money. i turn to nice teeth: “would you mind?” i ask, and nice teeth shakes his head, chuckling to himself, sitting back down to watch felicia dance. i’m fine, i know this, the club has plenty of excellent bouncers who will rip a man’s dick off the instant he even tries to touch me. so i’m not worried about eric. i take his hand, i tell him the rates, i tell him about my specials. he nods to all of it, says he wants a private lapdance. a long one. i ask him how long, ten minutes? “an hour,” he says. i say we don’t do hours, and he pulls out this wad of cash from his pocket and says, “how much is a ten minute lapdance?” “sixty,” i say, and he starts counting money. “i want six ten minute lapdances,” he says, and gives me more than what it would cost.

so i’m like hell yeah and i lead him toward the private booths, with a small detour to let the DJ know that i’m going to be incapacitated for the next hour. i also manage to catch the eye of troy, one of the bouncers, and i give him a look like “stay close.” he nods and follows us from a distance. i hand the stack of money to a fellow stripper,

i take eric to the farthest booth because i like the privacy. the rooms are cozy but big enough to twirl around in. there’s a couch opposite the door and mirrors on the walls and ceiling. it’s dimly lit, which thankfully hides the still-healing pole dancing bruises on my thighs. i tell eric to take a seat. he asks if he can remove his jacket. “as long as you’ve got a shirt on underneath,” i quip. he doesn’t respond. under his jacket he is wearing a black polo shirt. he’s a small guy and skinny.

outside, the muffled 4/4 bass drum beat shifts from one tempo to another, a slower beat. the DJ announces a new dancer: carolyn, a newbie but incredibly strong on the pole. she asks me for tips with guys and bums the occasional cigarette outside. the slow beat influences my hips and i slowly undulate my body onto eric’s lap. “you know there’s no touching, right?” eric nods, and then bursts into tears. like, sobs, sobs so hard his chest heaves. and suddenly i go from sexy stripper to mother hen. i slide from on his lap to on the couch and hugging him, softly at first, but sometimes you can tell when a person just needs a good bear hug.

what’s wrong, what’s wrong, it’s okay, i keep repeating. he was dating a girl who died suddenly of a brain tumor and he didn’t know how to deal with it. he was so in love with this woman that the idea of moving on from her was causing him physical stress, and he decided to confront that by going to a strip club. just to watch the women dance. his friend gave him my name and where i worked, and mentioned at some point that strippers love guys who talk to them. that kind of pissed me off; i don’t care if guys talk to me, i care if they pay me money and don’t sexually assault me. but anyway, this guy was hurting and he just wanted someone to be there. i understand that. he’s not my first crying guy at the strip club, but his story was definitely the saddest. his girlfriend had been dead for almost a year and he hadn’t dated or hardly gone out. he knew he was supposed to move on but didn’t know how, and i guess he thought coming to a strip club would help. i don’t know if it ever did, because after the hour was up (mostly spent crying and talking), he gave me a hundred dollar tip and left, and never came back, ever. believe me, i’m still looking for him. i think about him every night. i hope he’s okay.