Źoja, Oktombro 30, 2008

I decided to ignore my meeting with the male prostitute. It was too much of a hassle to deal with someone so aggressive and hot tempered and beside that a client called and wanted to schedule for that time slot. I think that I must have saved myself a whole lot of stress and it does not matter much at all because it looks as though he found himself a woman to work with regardless. Beyond that things are going well despite business being a bit more slow than I would like for it to be, though with Halloween coming up I am not so much worried about business. I am more concerned about what it is that I am going to be wearing! I was going to attend the Halloween festivities down at the Seven dressed up as some sort of frightening scarecrow-turned-stripper amalgam but the prospect of sewing together an entire costume in such limited time is too daunting. Instead it looks as though I will be attending as a generic zombie type deal since that sort of costume requires nothing more than some liquid latex and a bit of light pigment.

I fucking love zombies, interpret that as you will.

In any case I find myself laying in bed and trying to pass the time. The problem with this is that the internet seems to be more than a little bit boring this afternoon. There is nothing worth reading at the moment and none of the message boards I frequent are active in any sort of interesting fashion. Because of this I have been reading Playing the Game by Belle de Jour while texting back and forth with the eighteen year old stripper friend who is still in high school. I am not sure if I have mentioned her before but she is fantastic. Now the book is keeping me interested and entertained just like the first two books did but I am hesitant to spend the whole afternoon reading it for two reasons. The first of these reasons is that I like to have my reading snacks available (fontina cheese and smoked salmon on cucumber slices) when reading anything written by Belle for more than a few minutes. I do not do much reading despite loving well written books - and the reason for this is that my standards and tastes decline most everything shelved in the average bookstore - so when I do commit my time to one I like to make it count. Most fiction bores me and strikes me as uninspired whereas most pieces of non-fiction either fail to hold my interest or just piss me off in the end. Of course the second reason is knowing that if I were to sit down and read all afternoon I would finish the entire book at once and then what would I have to read on the slow days?