Do what you gotta do, right?

5×. 

That’s the number of attempts I gave on a food stamp application only to ‘×’ out the tab midway through because I’m better than any of my exes at wasting my own time, lmao. Filling out the application forced me to confront my arrogance and pride – and lowkey raised a lingering question whispering if my past relationships didn’t work because – gasp! – was it really me, not them? (It was them.)

Now I know we don’t like to accept responsibility so I’m gonna live up to that expectation and say it’s not my fault (are you enjoying this or what). Society has sort of this dehumanizing stigma surrounding government aid that morphs my face into a boiled tomato whenever I think about applying. I need the help, damn it! But nOOoo, pride would rather prefer that I stay hungry for a tomato than to turn into one. 

WHICH MEANS, I’m breaking my 5-week long hiatus from hustling (god, it’s so hard to quit this lifestyle). Get money dancing at the club for old men and get paid dating them over dinner (and then immediately ditching them ’cause yes, I’m a hoe, but not on ~that level~ kinda hoe, if you catch my drift). 

Phlebotomist intern by day, stripper by night. 

Hope you guys have enough popcorn ’cause shit’s about to get a little twerky and quirky in here.

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