Gettin’ Paid (Please Pass the Xanax)

     If I can pull this week off, it’ll be a miracle. 

     I’m on a bit of a tear recently.  I need money for my Vermont falconry vacation (and boy, am I going to need some R&R after this!) and airfare back home for Thanksgiving and I’ve been trying to pay back the Surgeon, too.  

      I thought about C.’s advice (“Get paid for it.”) and took it to heart.  She also told me: “Look, you’re a bangin’ chick.  If you’re in this business and struggling like you were last summer, you’re doing something wrong.”  

      She has a point.  If you consider the risks I am taking (my family and students finding out about my secret job, THE SURGEON finding out about my secret job, running into someone who knows me at my secret job), some of the obnoxious shit I have to put up with (men high on drugs, insane dysfunctional management), and the sacrifices I am making (transparency in my life, emotional intimacy with a man) to do this, then the truth is: I should be making money from it.  Big money.  

       See, I have zero business sense and no natural material ambition.  I’m an idiot academic.  All I want to do is read and write and think about stuff all day.  And have weird sex.  

       So, I took out some ads, slightly expanded my services, and raised my fee significantly.  Then–and this was the tough one–I screwed up my courage and agreed to travel to them.

        Things got very intense very fast.  I don’t know if it’ll last–I don’t know if I can keep this up.

         I have students in the morning.  A manuscript is due on Friday.  The Mathematician is coming over to my place this afternoon (yeah, he’s paying me.  It’s emotionally sticky…I don’t want to think about it).  Then I have to spend some serious time in the bathroom getting ready for dinner and an extended appointment with a new guy at his hotel uptown.  The hotel is so expensive that I have never heard of it, and I’ve been around the block, if you know what I mean–knowledge of it has not drifted down to the level of my proletarian existence.  Usually I’d be excited because I’m fascinated with hotels, now all I’m thinking is that I have nothing appropriate to wear and I need to look good.  

        The Surgeon wants to see me tomorrow (and if he swings by unannounced, as he is wont to do, this afternoon, my ass is grass.  Uh-oh), but before that, I am meeting a different wackadoodle for two hours at 7 AM.  7 AM!!!  Who WOULDN’T want to get their balls stomped on at 7 AM?  7 AM is the ideal ball-stomping hour!  So it’s gonna be Mathematician, dinner and weirdness with Donald Trump, ball-stomping wackadoodle, tutoring center, afternoon madness with the Surgeon who I hope does not suspect anything, A.A. and a meeting with my sponsor (rigorous honesty!  rigorous honesty! arrrgh!), and then a breather until I go back to the motorcycle-riding Wolf’s house on Friday.  Then I have a student on Saturday and then a regular as the Studio and then another appointment Saturday night at midnight on the Upper East Side, but I’m probably not going to go to that one because it’s kinda creepy.  Nothing good in the Biz happens after 11 PM.  Take my word for it.

       And I gotta keep the Surgeon from messing up my skin too much.  

      In the pictures I sent to Donald Trump*, I was 5 lbs thinner.  Do you think he will be able to tell?  🙁   :-/ I am kinda worried about that.  And I hope that he’s not an asshat, because I have to talk with him for an hour and a half over dinner.  

       I feel like Beaker when he starts to freak out in this video:

*not the real Donald Trump, obviously

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