It was snowing like whoa last night. Snow in NYC = Ripper Panic. Anywhere else in the world (read: Canada, the greatest place on Earth) people get out the shovel and carry on as usual. But since New Yorkers can't handle inclement weather, so begins the downward spiral of a bunch of eager bitches having nowhere to direct our greedy hustle. When this happens, we reek of desperation. It oozes from our makeup-clogged pores and not even the cheapest vanilla body spray can mask its odor. All the snowstorming champs coming inside for shelter and schnapps can smell it, and we're fucked.
Let me set the scene: Droves of men, oodles of strippers, no action. It's more tragic than a middle school dance, because I know that once I'm ready to throw in the towel and break into heaving sobs, my mom won't be picking me up in the minivan. No one is taking me to Tim Horton's after this shit.
One thing that has remained constant since middle school is that boys are mean to girls looking for a break. When it gets like this, strippers have no choice but to get weird and fuck them scrubs. I must act like a proud, no-fucks-giving B I T C H.
So when I sit on the next guy's lap, I tell him I want to slap him in the face with a leg of lamb.
He gave me $50.
When life give you lemons, make a fucking lemon drop.