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this week sucked

Well, it started fine. I got to see my boyfriend again, I was working, I was back in my home city. Life was okay. I had Tuesday off and I was feeling happy.

On Wednesday, I broke down sobbing (and I will confess, dear readers, I was drunk) in the dressing room and punched a wall until my knuckles bruised.

When I came home that night I discovered I was getting kicked out of where I lived because they thought I was an alcoholic.

On Thursday morning I tried to overdose on ibuprofen. Obviously, this didn’t work.

The thing about overdosing was it took so much longer than I thought it would. I had to drink charcoal and I threw up for two days. They had me on a heart monitor for a while. I didn’t die. When I got out of the hospital the same day my friend’s parents still kicked me out.

Today my boyfriend dumped me over text message.

I have no place to live and I’m scared. I am so scared. I have nowhere to go and I’m scared that my agency is going to drop me and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have to start school in a week. I have enough money to get by for a month or two if I’m unemployed but I need a place to stay, first, and I don’t know what to do.

I want to write something that has real feeling in it but I’m just too numb for any of that. I just keep breathing. And it’s hard. I hate the way this feels.

(via misskatehate)

I love my job and it’s exhausting at the same time. Jamming takes up a good twelve to fourteen hours a day, but it’s the only way to make money in Manitoba, and I need that money. I work for that money. I snap up fifteen dollars of tips with eagerness. But it is so hard.

What’s really hard is that it looks like I can’t freelance over the winter, because two clubs blacklisted me. They’re owned by the same guy, and ostensibly it’s because I have “cuts all over my arms and legs” and “serious issues”, but in reality? I had my minor scarring (which consists of a few scars on my upper thighs, visible only when I don’t feel like cover-up) when I was freelancing for him for months. I don’t do drugs, I don’t get drunk at work, I don’t start drama, but he’s being a catty little brat because I stopped accepting freelancing wages. I can’t and yet can believe that a grown man at least twice my age would go behind my back and try to smear me to my agency all because I left my job exactly like I told him I would.

The management in this industry drives me nuts. The immaturity and cattiness from people old enough to know better, people who are business owners and all. The arbitrary rules and the expectation that we will work ungodly schedules and have no lives outside of work. The snotty bartenders and the rude waitresses.

It’s hard, and it’s insane. If I end up forced to take a “normal” job over the winter it honestly will come as a relief in some ways. I want to work in Ontario but this shit is driving me up the wall.

I think this is what burnout feels like.

ALIVE

So despite the long radio silence, I have been alive and doing things. Primarily, I’ve been getting back to work. My real work.

I signed up with the local stripper agency, which I have mixed feelings about. The money is steadier, I get an actual paycheck, and I can freelance at the clubs with any money left in this damn city, but on the other hand the bars can arbitrarily cancel shows if they don’t like you. My old club is pissy that I signed up, but all I have to say to that is: tough shit. It cost me thirty-four dollars after commission, though, and I don’t like that.

Also the customers at the dive bars are consistently creepy fucks who don’t tip. I foresee a lot of half-assing shows in my future.

I also got asked to make internet porn last night. Pretty weird.

In better news, I have a boyfriend, and he is fucking AMAZING.

I am now four seconds from screaming.

My car battery died. I am trapped in this kiosk with a fucking racist. If I could start running now I would run until I reached the coast. I don’t think I can do this fucking bullshit anymore.

THIS IS PETER PETTIGREW/ALL OF THE OTHER MARAUDERS.

I love that ‘tipsy and frantically hitting refresh’ feeling. I AM SUCH A NERD.

Mother leaves home. Crack open bottle of rum again. Hate job. Consider fleeing country, life, beginning anew as sexier version of self.

and I will leave my cravat on: Something gross happened to me today. →

khaleesi:

And I’ve been mulling it over because in the scheme of things, it’s minor, but it still really unnerved me.

So. I am 20 years old and work in a pretty well-known East Coast Italian ice eatery, which is a job I mostly enjoy. Every June, we do a fundraiser for Alex’s Lemonade Stand, which entails…

Oh jesus. A) If I were present I would happily break this motherfucker in half with my legs.

B) I also hate that this exists. Up and down the rung of social status - politician to dessert maker to stripper. Doesn’t matter. If you have (or it’s assumed you have, anyway, we’re not talking particularly sensitive fucking people) a vagina, men assume they have the right to suggest they can get all up in there.

It’s awful and I hope you feel better, goddamn.