thisisnotreallyablogforreal

For Halloween I dressed up as a bloated ladybug. My costume didn’t have wings, so I was made fun of and called a budget bug. That hurt my feelings. Why did I choose to be a bloated ladybug? I promised myself, after last Halloween when I was offered 125 dollars an hour, that this year I would not dress like a cheap whore. It was really hard for me not to whore-up my ladybug costume--Isn’t it fun to create new words with hyphens?—(that was a rhetorical question. Please do not send me e-mails that read: Yes, it’s so fun to create new words with hyphens!) Note: the previous parenthetical commentary was mainly for my stalker who has been answering all the rhetorical questions in my journal via e-mails to me. Stop it, you psychotic excuse for a human being! It was really hard for me not to whore-up my ladybug costume. I could have easily worn a short skirt, fishnets, and boots with my furry top and hood instead of the shiny black pants, but I did not. I was comfortable, I was fury, and the only skin showing was that of my arms and my baby smooth face.What was I thinking?I fooled myself into thinking that, on Halloween, men want a cute little bug and not a nipple hanging out of a toga. Men don’t want cute.Women don’t want cute. I should have whored myself out. All around me there was skin and cleavage and pleather and sexy nurses and stripper/librarians, and schoolgirls gone bad. Boobs and butts and thighs and tummy . . .I felt so left out. I kept telling myself that I was ‘one hot thang’ underneath my round, thick fleece top, but it was no use. I wasted the one night I had to look like a whore and not feel guilty!As I sit here at the end of another typical Saturday night, clad in my black mini skirt, leather thigh highs, and white tube top with two milk cartons over each boob above the words, “suck it,” I realize that women should not need an excuse to dress like the dirty little skanks that they are. I guess the moral of this entry is: No man wants to go home with a bloated ladybug. . .no matter how drunk he is, and no matter how many times you’ve told him that he’ll never find the keys to the handcuffs and he might as well go quietly without a fuss.