This essay is honestly so chaotic but welcome to my brain when it’s hot haha every year may to october my brain fries and splatters in directions unknown to anyone let alone me. Add my quarter-life crisis into the mix and boom! you have…. this?…!!
the past few weeks has been a unique and lovely kind of terrible. I’ve ___________, I lost 500 words of powerful writing to the full moon ether (you’re welcome, bitch!), and I am generally just feeling off. But, at the time I’m writing this, I am in my favorite place with my favorite people, and that takes the sting out of things. It’s the kind of terrible that is there to usher me into the next phase of Me™. Comfort and change cannot cohabitate.
The planets are parading in the house opposite my sense of self and I think it’s making me extremely unsure of my path or, at least, very uncomfortable with all that is outside of me. All I can tell is that I am at a crossroads. I don’t think I am feeling anything off-par from the whole of humanity. There’s a leap that has to be made. The lack of information is not changing any time soon.
Earlier this year, my path was completely fogged up, I was essentially walking blind, which is actually less frightening than seeing where you should be and having no idea how to get there and no one who can help you because everyone is too busy dealing with their own problems and making their own money.
This week I realized I am either going to have to get a second job, go full service, do hardcore agency porn or kill myself. At least until I get paid a livable amount to tell jokes or paint or teach my little class or anything the fuck else oh my god everything is so miserable when is it going to stop. It’s Cancer season and I just want to sleep. I keep bursting into tears of overwhelm as I write this. All of this want is propelled by the gnosis that it’s time to get out this fucking country while I see a sliver of an opportunity1.
My dreams are too big for this entire planet tbh but they are definitely too big for this country. It’s just… time to see something else2.
Any optimism of I had of a future here has been sobered up by the government of the state of georgia cutting me off from the program that pays for my food. I knew this day was coming, because fraud isn’t forever, I just didn’t know it would be today. I want to stop thinking about money, for just a second3.
My Tryst account is currently getting verified. I don’t feel like my pictures are good enough, because I am comparing myself to other providers (BIG no-no!) and it’s flashing through my head all the reasons I was avoiding this for so long. I don’t even want to pay the money it would take to be this kind of provider, I don’t even want to interact with that kind of clientele. Why would I want to suck senator/CEO/rich fucker dick if it’s not ending in an assassination? I just can’t put it to the side. How do I make enough money to do what I want without becoming a tumor4? I wish all my clients were queer. But I will more likely have to put my lesbian in a box for a few hours at a time, and that will take some time to get used to. But I hold onto it by refusing to kiss any men on the face at base rate (gfe or bust, and even then, no tongue, ew!).
I don’t know why I have been avoiding something people already assume of me anyway but I also know that’s exactly why I’ve been avoiding it. I’m just so trapped by life like there’s a part of myself that’s like of course it ended up like this. Because it was only a matter of time until the color of my skin, my body, and my intelligence all became too much too have a normal tax-paying job, because all the negatives of those factors of my personhood are multiplied by age along with the swollen waves of fascist purity culture that are actively seeping into every way that I keep myself alive. It’s the only thing that causes me to fear growing older.
I have been avoiding full service because, although bubbly and curious, I am an extremely private person when it comes to my desire. I don’t trust most to treat me gently once they’re inside, because they never fucking do. It’s the reason I charge what I charge. Low volume, high price point.
During one of our (at least weekly) facetime chats with my sister, she said something that snapped me out of a fog:
“I have never heard you talk about any job you’ve held as much as you talk about this one”.
I realized she was so fucking right and in that moment, I instantly detached. Hard. Something I am extremely good at but have been working on not doing because there are beautiful things and beings to pour my abundance of love into, and, ironically, I tend to detach from what feels good and latch onto the painful, like the little masochistic baby I am. social work is the most gnargly tit.
The whiplash of my brain hitting its ideological brakes feels like freedom. I’ve been wrapped tightly in the threads of paperwork and bureaucracy, and, just as the spider of nine-to-five-dom goes in to eat me, I’ve escaped.
The fortress has softened its defense a good bit in the past year (I know the metaphors are hard to follow just go with it). But, since this conversation, I have realized it’s time to start a rush production of a new one, one that encapsulates me and what I love and Real Beauty while it shields me from desks of thorny circumstance.
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