For the first time in months, I feel good. I feel great. I'm painting again. I'm writing poems and I'm singing and I'm playing my guitar and I'm going jogging every morning at 6 am. I haven't showered in days and it's awesome; I love being disgusting and covered in paint because strange men don't pester me when I walk around outside wearing only a bikini top and running shorts.

This morning, a young homeless guy asked me if I'd like to buy a poem for 50 cents. I told him I had no money on me (the truth). He gave me a poem anyway. It was a decent poem, short, written on a bit of scrap paper. I like that. I like him. Tomorrow I'll see if I can find him again and if I do I'll give him a whole jar of change.

I did it. I walked out on my job. I had to. Irresponsible? Maybe. Ethical? I think so. Why? Because I was becoming a terrible person. I had only worked at that club for two months and it was turning me into a manipulative, lying bitch. I was learning how to sell myself just as much as I was learning how to sell drinks and as it turns out I am a hot product. The problem is that I do not want to be a product and I especially do not want my ass to be a product. I am not kidding; men would drop money on the floor so that I they could see up my skirt while I bent over to pick it up. I took their ass-cash willingly because I kind of like money. I'm really not ok with that and I had nearly fooled myself into believing that I WAS ok with that but in a moment of clarity (or panic) I said to myself "I have to get out of here" and so I did, mid-shift, and never came back.

I celebrated by having a shitshow giganto at my house. It was such a good party. The best party. I defiantly wore a frilly old dress (inherited from my grandma) because I've had it with miniskirts and bustiers. I still had boys clinging to me like flies but at least they were not clinging to my ass because frilly old dresses don't allow asses to make appearances (and I'm quite ok with that.)

I am a doll. I am painted and poised and pointed and posed and posied and praised. My manager has a crush on me. My customers stare at me and smile at me and wink at me and give me too much money for nothing more than being beautiful. The other girls know it too. Dancer Joelle says "you look prettier every day I see you." I love it and I hate it all at once.

Shit's getting me down.

I'm cold turkeying cigarettes, caffeine, and booze and replacing them all with zoloft. So far I feel dizzy

I finally have a day off from work and although I ought to be off painting a mural (it is a mural that will likely never get finished), I am at home. I collected orange blossoms from a nearby grove and am pulling off all the petals, rinsing them, and pulverizing them to make orange water with. I'm also watching house finches swooping around my birdfeeder.