Blackmailed by strippers


I kinda miss my old blog when I was writing fucked up stories about my fucked up life. It was some hilarious shit, but the thing about it is… they were stories about me banging whores and getting arrested. How many stories can live like that on the Internet? It felt like every time I had something serious come up, be it a job interview or client proposal or magazine editor browsing through my work before making a decision to take on a piece I wrote, I could feel them judging my story about the day I day I gave Ryan Gosling my autograph or the time I ordered a hooker for my cab driver. That shit just doesn’t look good.

Maybe I should find them and put them in a secret vault called: fucked up stories about hookers and jail. Or maybe a vault called: before I got sober. The categories I had on my last blog were like: crazy ass relationships, fucked up shit, homelessness, teen runaway and the like. Now it’s podcasts, society, writing, travel and boring shit like that. I made a firm decision though: no more of that. I’m going to dead those stories and write some new shit. Funny thing is, no matter how hard I try to “sound different” I sound the same.

My friend showed me letters once that I had written her when I was twelve or thirteen or however old I was; I was in camp, summer camp. I guess that’s what Jews do, we go to summer camp. Anyway, I was there and I wrote my friend letters and twenty years later she showed me those letters I wrote her, and it sounded like my blog. I haven’t changed a bit. My personality stayed the same. I don’t even think my vocabulary has grown. It’s crazy how little something like that changes. The letter sounded as if I coulda written it yesterday. Mind blown.

So that’s kinda what I’m tryin to attempt here with, the only thing is, I’m censoring myself a bit and leaving out the jail stories. I’m leaving out the sex stories. I’m not including the abusive relationships I was in for decades. Now people don’t read a blog post and immediately call me to ask if I’m okay.

“Are you okay?”

“Mom that shit happened when I was sixteen.”

So those are all good things, right? At least now I don’t have to worry that I mighta written something that will come back and bite my ass off in three years because before I hit the publish button, every morning, I actually read what I just wrote over before I put it out there. I don’t mention names or specific situations and I keep all the illegal stuff off the post.

It’s like that scene in Molly’s Game where her lawyer (Idris Elba AKA Stringer Bell) asks her, “did you just write a whole book about a felony you committed?”

I look at my book on the shelf… I used to think about that all the time. I’d write the story then be like: that shit is fuckin illegal. Am I gonna go to jail for writing about that? Is this like a confession? So whatever, at least I don’t have to worry about that kinda shit anymore. We’ll see where it leads I suppose.

The moral of the story is: no matter how hard you try to stop writing about banging Brazilians and being blackmailed by strippers, in the end, you’ll write about it anyway.

About the author


I'm a high school dropout who escaped reform school when I was sixteen and hitchhiked the country as a homeless teen till I finally made sense of the world. I now work as a travel writer, marketer, publicist, I published a book and broke the guinness world record for longest road trip. I've done some other crazy shit too. But I'm still alive and seven years sober. Enjoy my insanity...

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