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The prostitute is the only honest woman left in America.
Ty-Grace Atkinson

Can You Can-Can? I Can Can-Can!

August 15, 2005

Whew! I just finished the Howards End fanlisting—slipped in right under the deadline. Even had an extra four hours to spare. I used the extra time to invent a new dance, which consists mainly of sitting in an armchair and flapping my skirt wildly without moving my legs. I call it the Paraplegic Can-Can. You don’t want to see the Quadraplegic Can-Can; that’s just me sitting still and rolling my eyes back and forth.

Tell me something: is it wrong that I consider hooker sightings kind of interesting? There’s this one intersection about ten blocks down from my house, and it’s become apparent that this is a very busy intersection, if you know what I mean. Now, I’m kind of naive—I can only recall seeing one prostitute before in my life, and she wasn’t exactly your average streetwalker; she actually mistook me for an, erm, sister of the night, but that’s a whole ‘nother tale. But when I see girls sashaying across the crosswalks and hovering near the gas stations, even I know what’s up. I hate to sound crass, but it’s kind of like catching sight of a deer in the woods; you want to point and go, “Ooh! Look!” But you really can’t, because that’s kind of rude, and plus there’s the danger that some big guy named Bruno the Ball-Buster is going to appear out of nowhere and demand $20 for looking at the merchandise. On the other hand, I’m terrified that my pointing finger and inquisitive look might be taken for a solicitation, and some pleather-wearing, chain-smoking crab shack is going to climb into the back seat before I can stop her and start doing naughty things to my husband. No, wait—my mother’s the one who usually sits in the back…

Oh, this entry is so done.