I’m calling in and excusing it (to myself not manager, who, lbr, could no doubt give a fuck as long as I pay my cancellation/bouncer fees$) by saying I will finish at least two pages tonight—
—but that’s almost making me want to work. I can’t get the perspective right on two lap dance shots and it’s killllling me. I meant to have someone pose for me so I could take it home and look at it but I keep forgetting.
The offshoot of being in a highly disposable line of work is that I want money all the time to safeguard against the bad shifts, the weeks the club owner decides to put me in my place by cutting my shifts, the time off to recover from surgery (boob job revision is actually the reason I’m taking two weeks off, what, you think I would be so crazy and reckless if I hadn’t accidentally ruptured the implant pocket during an awesomely intense massage? No way. Missing out on two weeks of work is HURTING ME already)—and lately not just money; I feel an increasing pressure to make something concrete out of this. A comic, a graphic novel, an oral history of the clubs here. all these things.
If only I could get the angle of my legs right while I’m sitting on a lap, get the casual “taking up loads of space” posture of the bachelor party, or the way that smarmy bachelor held himself after I punched him.