I'm borderline broke. As much as I love my on-campus job, it's about as part time as part time gets. It's an allowance, but it won't pay the rent.
Day by day, I've been working things out with the sidekick. By "working things out," I mean that we haven't talked about the fact that
he doesn't want me doing sex work since he last said, "I don't want you doing sex work
." I guess we're working it out silently, which could also mean that we're just uncommunicative, but I'd like to think there's some sort of resolution coagulating beneath the surface.
With that said, I'm still borderline broke. I can barely afford the bikini wax I'd need to get before jilling off for strangers. I had almost convinced myself to apply for a grocery store graveyard shift (classes all day, playing
tetris with orange crates all night), when a dear friend of mine decided to unknowingly fluff her feathers at my expense.
Tina is going to school for computer animation. Every summer, she flits off to some major city to take an unpaid internship with an animation company. It's been a point of contention for some time now, as my financial situation does not provide me the luxury of shipping off to Manhattan, Santa Monica, Boston, etc. While she pads her resume, I pad the fragile egos of over-the-hill cubicle monkeys. We have only spoken of sex work in terms of activism, not real-life application. When she asks about my summer, I say I futzed around and scraped by doing odd jobs. She's generally excited to talk about her own work, so this answer is as good as any.
While I've become quite adept at acknowledging and moving past jealousy in romantic relationships, my friendships are another story. When I see a friend succeeding where I am failing (more recognition, more privilege, more opportunities), a feeling of bitter resentment washes over me. An example from this evening: Through one of her internships, Tina was offered a job making online banner advertisements. The ads take between five and thirty minutes to complete, and she receives $200 per ad.
"Gillian called to ask if I could make FOUR ads this weekend," Tina gushed on our way home from the grocery store. I had just finished panicking about how much money we'd spent on food for a neighborhood barbecue, and it was the worst time she could have chosen to bask in personal triumph. It was one of those moments where, try as you might, you just can't share in someone else's excitement.
"Oh," I said. "Lucky you."
The clincher? Her mother still covers her rent, bills, food, clothing, and extraneous school or non-school related expenses. She'll make more money this weekend than I'd make giving handjobs, and she won't have to contribute a dime toward her own basic living expenses.
For the past few hours, I've been feeling a sick sort of competitiveness. There's a part of me that wants to say: $800? Okay, I'll show you $800. I can do it too, you know! There are people out there just
waiting to utilize my talents. They're waiting, I tell you. I just need to make the first move...
I am trying to sequester this voice, but it's getting harder and harder with each overdue bill.
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