chili-dog day afternoon.

when i got to work today, there was a naked tweeker girl in the dressing room. she started talking the moment she saw me and did not stop till she was dressed and on her way out into the world, spilling the contents of her broken-zippered backpack all the way. she was sooo skinny. just all ribs and elbows and pelvic bone. i'm tiny, but i wouldn't describe myself as "skinny," as i have tits and ass and muscles and even a lil' potbelly at christmastime. anyway i was changing out of my street clothes and she goes, "oh, are those gap jeans?"

"yes," i said, preparing myself to ignore whatever rambling anti-capitalist sweatshop speech i was about to receive.

"i love gap jeans," she said. "what size are they?"

"i like them too. these are a size 0."

she goes, "oh. zero? well i wear a DOUBLE ZERO. i tried the zero's on before and they were just hanging off. i'm 10 kindsa tiny."

"yeah, you're pretty slender," i said just for something to say, since she was looking at me like, "what do you have to say about that?!" and i wanted her to look away.

"yep. i'm only 105 pounds," she said, and then repeated, "i'm 10 kindsa tiny."

have you ever heard that expression, "ten kinds of tiny?" yeah, me neither. i imagine it was something a customer said to her once. must've struck a chord with her and now she's using it as her repetitive self-descriptive.

"how much do YOU weigh?" she asked, rather smugly.

i thought about lying, saying something like 125 or whatever so she could relax into her role as the Skinniest Person in the Room and shut up already. but i dunno, why should i lie to this random tweeker? so i said, "108."

"you only weight three pounds more than me?" she asked, skeptically. "well how tall are you?"

"5'2.''"

"okay, see: i only weigh 105 but i'm 5'6''. so yeah, i mean i'm just TINY."

"emaciated," "deathly thin," "precariously bony," was more like it. but i'd never say that. i don't want to be on a tweeker's bad side. or their good side, either. i just wanted her to STOP TALKING TO ME. then finally she got dressed and left.

i went and danced for a while, then sat at the bar, drinking water. i'm trying to lay off the sauce for a while, till my stomach stops hurting. it's been exactly one week now. one week and one day, actually. so i am not as bubbly as usual.

this guy sat down next to me and was talking and kept spitting a little. a sizable dollop of spit landed on my arm and then i couldn't even hear what he was saying, because i was fixated on this glob of spit on my arm. it was not that huge, but i felt sober and irritable, and i wanted it off. before i realized what i was doing, i kind of wiped my arm on his sleeve.

he goes, "what are you doing?"

i couldn't think of any good lie so the truth would have to suffice. "um. well... you spit on me and i was just wiping it on your shirt."

"oh. okay," he said, and continued on with whatever he was saying. i felt relieved that he wasn't offended. i'm not usually rude like that. or maybe i am? no. usually i'm sweet.

later i was sitting at the bar playing scrabble on my phone and just really enjoying how toasty warm the club is, i mean the heater is on truly and totally full-blast (i know i mention this a lot when talking about the tiny new dive i'm working at, but i just want you to know how unbelievably FUCKING COZY it feels to be so warm in the middle of winter, especially when you're mostly naked). a guy was sitting next to me, but we weren't hanging out or talking. anyway my co-worker played that otis redding song, "try a little tenderness," and i said, "oh. this reminds me of Pretty In Pink." then suddenly the guy started lip-synching and doing a crazy ducky dale dance on his barstool. it would've been cute, but he was about two inches from my face, and something about it was just too dramatic too close. plus that's one of my all time favorite movies and i'd have been content to just close my eyes and watch the record store scene in my mind. i smiled and offered a few polite chuckles. he didn't stop till the whole song was over, though, which i found so annoying. if i had been tipsy, i'd probably have loved it and joined in. but drunk people just aren't as entertaining to me when i'm sober. i'm sort of a drag.

hmm what else. well a canadian guy came in and wanted 4 lapdances without asking my name or seeing me dance at all. absolutely no pre-amble, just walked in and asked for a dance before he even took off his parka. i'd like for that to happen more often.

i guess that's all for now. oh, except you might be interested to know that there's a lunch special at my new club, and today it was a chili-dog with fries and a PBR for $6. does a chili-dog seem like a particularly strange thing to eat at a strip club, or is it just me? just wondering.