"I Don't Like the Drugs, but the Drugs Like Me"

--MM

When I started crying, it was as much of a shock to my mother as it was to me. I covered my eyes with my hands, and felt the tears leaking through my fingers.

I supposed that yesterday was a somewhat bad day in the history of recent days. It was bad enough that I called my mother while I was drinking a glass of wine at a local, small Italian restaurant, waiting for the pizza to come out of the oven that I was planning on going to Stanford sooner than expected. Today, I made an appointment for the second of August (tomorrow). I just feel like I'm losing control.

I'm sitting there, drinking this wine that I hate (wasn't worth the seven bucks for a single glass) that I could, technically, TXT-message the English instructor, but I did say never--I would never call him (TXT-messaging is naturally included in this)--unless he gave me expressed permission to do so. I'm pretty sure I would get a response of some sort (the English instructor is more direct than Morpheus, but that's not saying much), but I doubt it would be a good response.

I looked him up on Twitter, and found his "educational" twitter feed. In one of his tweets, he used "lol," which I always thought was beneath him--but--whatever--I hardly know this man.

I'm sitting there, and I call Morpheus, knowing that the call will just go straight through to voicemail, even though Morpheus told me--to my face--that he doesn't know how to block calls (I just happen to have the unfortunate talent of always calling when his phone is turned off, right? Right.)

But, I guess, that was only part of the reason why I ended up crying that night. The LSU Professor and I got into a fight about how I found a local escort service for the county, and I told him through TXT-message that if I lost some weight, the cash would be nice to have. Of course, for whatever reason, the LSU Professor objected wholly, telling me he was sad at this choice, and that he was concerned that I would get hurt. In the years as a private dancer and as a stripper in a club, and then the years I spent hooking up with strange guys at a bar, well, in all those years, I've never been once assaulted or injured. I send him a flippant, "What do you care?" That was like pouring gasoline on the conversation. The LSU Professor told me that I could not command his feelings, and then sent me an even more emotional TXT-message, saying that he wouldn't bother me again since he's become such a bother to me.

What the fuck?

 I want to send him a paragraph about asking how he would feel about me working at McDonald's, working shit hours with shitty pay, and dealing with shitty, condescending customers (I've worked fast food, so I have some experience with this), and behind an equally shitty frier. All for, what, ten bucks an hour (I don't even remember the minimum wage here in this county). You wouldn't be sad then? Why? Because you're clinging to the stigma of sex work when sex work generally pays pretty well, especially at the upper levels, and you work very few hours. You can make twenty bucks by grinding on some guy's lap for twenty seconds.

That's not fucking sad? Maybe I should mop floors for a living.

I hate the argument that I should respect myself well enough not to objectify myself. Oh, most of us end up on our knees at some point.

But what really pushed me over the edge was the fact that my back pain has been getting progressively worse, and I have to deal with asshole doctors who treat me like I already have an addiction problem when I ask for pain pills. Why? Because the fucking media has totally twisted the story of opioid addiction in this country because of a few sensational stories of heroin addicts passing out in a car full of kids that sells ad space. And most doctors are too fucking lazy to actually read the research behind opioid addiction. My GP even told me about how he watched this story on TV, and how it influenced him not to prescribe opioids. Really? The fucking TV? Good god, I hope he doesn't search YouTube videos for how to cut someone open for surgery.

I was crying because I can't take a fucking shower without being in terrible pain. So, I don't shower but twice a week. The rest of the time, I use a wash cloth and the sink (unfortunately for me, eventually, I have to wash my hair).