You Know You're a Stripper When...
I got to thinking…ha. I should make a list like this…So here goes.
You know why baby oil is bullshit.
You know all of the words to every Nickelback song and don’t like Nickelback.
You look forward to hearing “Girls, Girls, Girls” and “Closing Time" [it’s the end of the night].
You’re notoriously terrible at being on time for anything.
You try not to piss off the DJ…because he might play “The Lap Dance is Always Better When the Stripper’s Crying” or “Rockin’ the Beer Gut”.
You’re out in public and forget to respond to your real name.
You have to pause before introducing yourself. (And then think: “I hope like hell that didn’t look awkward.”)
You buy baby wipes in bulk…for yourself.
You’ve seen more pussy than a porn addict.
You’ve ever paid for groceries or paid a bill in ones.
You hope that the gas station will break a hundred.
You walk into a bar, grocery store, or class and wonder how many people have seen you naked.
In winter, sometimes you miss the daylight hours altogether.
You frequently show up for work late, or not at all, and still have a job.
You struggle to call meals by their proper names–is breakfast at 4pm (before work) or 6 am (after work)? And you have no idea when the hell “lunch” might take place.
Taking off your shoes in unnecessary in changing clothes.
Your work outfit can fit in a Ziploc snack bag.
…But somehow you need a suitcase or trunk for work.
Your cell phone has a full section of contacts with names like Diamond, Pleasure, Sparkle, Cinderella, Destiny, Sinister…
You don’t often remember your co-workers’ real names.
…But that’s okay, because when you do text them, you refer to yourself by your stage name, too.
Your dog usually has glitter in her fur.
You feel unsteady in two-inch shoe-store heels but can run and jump in seven-inch stilettos.
You feel comfortable in a crowded room wearing nothing but shoes. (And can’t imagine not feeling that way anymore.)
You worry about zits on your ass more than those on your face.
You complain about a shitty night and you mean $300.
Waking up before noon is an unreasonably early hour. You wait to make appointments until a slot after noon is available.
You lie about what you do because you’re sick of people asking a million questions about it.
You remind nail techs to not take the callouses off of your toes.
You’re not uncomfortable in seven-inch stilettos for nine hours.
You can make your ass cheeks “clap”.
You can shave half the surface area of your body before most people can finish their legs.
You’ve got enough strength to hang upside down ten feet in the air, but can’t figure out how to lift a television.
You consider purchasing underwear to be an investment.
Drinking on the job is encouraged, as long as you’re still standing.
Your tax write-offs include makeup, lotion, tiger balm, underwear, and glitter.
Your co-workers frequently disappear and reappear weeks later.
A co-worker crying at work is not an altogether infrequent incident.
Some taken from http://catharticlament.com/posts/071.html.
romaincrisis
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