dancing girls

Burning Books

April 30, 2016


Someone called this blog my ‘burn book’ last night.

Seriously? 100 000 followers and you are yelling at me in the middle of the floor on a Friday night…that hardly seems safe now does it.

“Watch how you treat writers, we will describe you.”

I get paid to tell stories about my life. Sometimes it bursts into flames, I light a smoke and watch it burn. Then I write about it.

I’m more of a pour-sugar-on-shit-to-make-it-look-good kinda girl. Ask my exes.

The irony of the Mean Girls references flying around while a group of sparkly blond girls ganged up on me…not lost.

It started a little something like this.

There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women. ~ Madeleine Albright

There’s an extra fiery pit for women who watch their drug dealer hit his girlfriend, proceed to just buy drugs anyways and leave her there.
The heat in that pit gets turned WAY the fuck up when they ‘swear on my son’s life I didn’t do that.’

Ya, you did.

Just like she swore on her son’s life she wasn’t trying to fuck my ex. She was.


She applied her cocaine logic to the situation…instead of talking to me, she amplified a pre-existing fight and suddenly every girl in that clique was mad at me, including my PIC.

I’d uttered a less than silent prayer earlier yesterday that my Friday night be peaceful and profitable. For two reasons.

  1. I knew I had fucked up at work. I mean I didn’t know, I was told.
    Bartender said “_______ is mad at you for touching her customer”.

    He explained what happened and when. I instantly felt like shit. The girl in question had asked Bartender to say something to me to avoid a fight. Rather adult of her actually, kudos.
    I said “There isn’t going to be a fight, I fucked up.”

To fight implies I have some right to counter her argument. I don’t.

It doesn’t matter that I meant no harm, harm was done. Ergo, no fight. Just her mad and me sorry.

We’ll come back to this.

But first.

  1. The girl who got beat up by the drug dealer? She’s a friend of mine. She called me panicked, crying, screaming and running down the street trying to get away from him and asking for help. I did what non-addicts do and grabbed my car keys, my son and a baseball bat and went to go get her. Put her in the car, threatened to run him over and brought her home.

I had already had a bit of a day.

Sadly my prayers went unanswered. Money was shit and ______ was pissed.

_______ asked me if it was okay to stick her finger in my face and I said ‘sure if that’s what you want.’ She was citing other fights with other girls. Seriously, do what you gotta do to get this out so we can get past it. Fuck, hit me if you need to.

But don’t yell at me on behalf of other girls.

Flashbacks of high school.

She who shall now forever be known as ‘Cocaine Logic’ saw a way to get in with the popular girls and took it.  She also took it upon herself to tell my PIC that she ‘heard’ I had been shit talking her.

I still have no idea what I supposedly said. In fact any time I have been asked about our time away I stick to ‘it was insane, it was amazing, I want to go away with her again’, it’s all right here in this very blog.

Why would I make plans to go away with her again? At 8:30 this very night we talked about going to Chicago. I openly called her my PIC and made her my WCW. I adamantly defended her when people spoke badly about her or warned me about hanging out/going away with her. I actually expected her to do the same. No such courtesy.

So be it. Soap bubble friendship that popped at the first touch of anything.

I’m not here to fight. I wouldn’t trade a minute of hanging out with her for some bullshit idea of revenge.

This is just one of life’s little shake ups.

I spent a year in that bar being teased and ridiculed and alone. I can do it again. And if memory serves, I made way more money when I had way less friends.


If you have followed the blog you know, everyone gets a nickname.

I handed out a bad one. Call it poetic licence.

It’s just a case of a writer knowing what I meant and not explaining it. It happens.
Again, I meant no harm by it but harm was done. Doesn’t matter if I meant to or not. I did the thing.

So my darling 100K readers, here’s the corresponding apology.

I called a girl at work THE Plastic. Hence all the Mean Girl talk.

She gets her hair and nails done did on the regular. She probably has a collection of purses and shoes that cost more than my last 3 vehicles combined. She is always looks like she stepped out of a magazine… pretty, coordinated. She works out, goes to yoga and Starbucks.

I’m a heavily tattooed, barely functioning alcoholic, weird, writer/stripper.

She isn’t part of my tribe is all. None of them are, I was just visiting.

What I failed to make clear is that despite our vast differences on paper…I really like her. She was fun to talk to, said things like ‘I don’t like your music but I love your shows’. Flattering considering her shows are flawless and fantastic.
She has layers, we have had a handful of great conversations.
The article I mentioned her in cited one of those talks. When I re-read it I realized I didn’t make it clear that although she had gotten on my nerves one night, I shrugged it off for the greater good, which was us getting along. I don’t like what you did but I still like you. Basically.

Work is just work.

I love my life. I have a wonderful man who loves me. I have a son who overhears that panicked conversation with my girl and just grabs a bat and starts the car.

I’m going to miss my PIC if she stays gone.
The idea of making new memories with her was a nice one.
But, if I miss her, I have about an hours’ worth of videotaped shenanigans stored in my phone.

I archive, that’s what I do.

Added bonus, all the extra blog hits while people read through looking for themselves in here.

Hi guys.





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