On balls and cajones

This ball that I am a 'prospective dancer' is going to be the end of me...

I am about to reserve my spot at Betty Ford. An excuse to drink on Tues nights.

Why is it when I get drunk, I tell everyone my life story, want to continue drinking beyond recognition of the evening invite them to gay Karaoke, and then wake up with bits of Pizza stuck to my face.

It is a viscious cycle that I infict upon my body.

Only this 'ball season' it will occur with regularity.

And it is a bad bad idea to tell people about your blog...especially when you are going to end up writing about them.

I was up at 6:30am this morning, when I woke up to the heat in my room clanking away, steaming, and leaving a condensation on my windows, leading me to believe at 6:30 am that it was raining in my room. Granted I was also severely alcohol and pizza hungover from the night before, so my judgement was a little off.

Hence why I am writing this at 7:45am, with the big bottle of Gatorade permanently attached to my face as I type. With each sip to electrolyte balance, remembering how if I keep my drunken behavior, drinking on an empty stomach, as I have for the past few weeks at the 'Libations' after rehearsals, I will no longer be a 'prospective dancer' for this ball, but instead be a kicked out dancer, an ex-dancer…and no more cute Italian for me to make eyes at. And I am hoping this one is not gay.

Although, judging from my performance last night, I think they discovered that I had 2 left feet, do not know my right from my left, and am really not “dance presentable”, especially since I hate tucking in my shirt. And I smoke ciggs which is evidently a bad thing in the ball circles society (aka pretending that such a thing still exists in the face of celebrity which has it trumped) circles. And I think I also made a few enemies (and of course they are women) but also a bunch of friends who I am super excited about.

This quasi-'society' stuff, I am coming to realize, was made for people without jobs, or perhaps it is in the process of training us how to be like functional alcoholics, while taking our money to give to some philanthropic cause helping white upper middle class people. But in the words of the Junior Committee, I am going to be “useless” on Wed. mornings. I guess they didn’t receive the memo that I am pretty useless in my job, and if it wasn’t for my ridiculous rent, I would have quit and would be waiting tables and writing. I already want to crawl back into bed.


Fuck, as I am coughing right now, I feel something in my lungs. I could have lung cancer. Would serve me right for chain smoking and treating my body like a trashcan.

Now I have to look for jobs to become a dominatrix, or in other words, a sex worker. And yes I am serious. Getting paid $200/hr to lob grapefruit at men’s asses or whatever humiliation gets them off without me having to sucky-sucky them is a great thing. Especially I could trade in my job at sitting at my desk for 9-10 hours a day.

So, your author, is attempting to become a member of 'society', the same person who is a participant in the White Trash Tour 2004, who was lecturing about feminist ideals last night, who brought up issues of class and class consciousness during conversations, and who is seriously contemplating becoming a domanintrix…

I am slowly realizing that I am a fish out of intellectual waters…my hair smells like an ashtray and I am too lazy to wash it this morning. So, I am leaving you with 2 questions my readers:

1.Why is it the old Woody Allen adage correct, “I don’t want to be part of a club that would have a person like me as a member?”

2.If a ball is entertaining the idea that someone like me, who is the antithesis of politically correct and dance presentable could become part of it, does the idea of 'society' really exist or has it too like most things, lost itself on becoming democratic?