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{excerpt from Anything But a Wasted Life}

With the word vomit and my conversational topics running on fumes, I’ve been divulging tidbits of truth about my life to customers, which must be confusing, because some of it conflicts with the false information I’ve been giving over the years. And I can’t always remember what I’ve told to whom. It’s a bit of a shit show. Last week, during a lap dance, I contradicted myself within a twenty-minute period! Why am I even talking? Can’t I just grind, and breathe, and be sexy. Things were easier fifteen years ago when I didn’t talk about my personal life at all. I wonder what we used to talk about?

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