October 30, 2016

I’ve been downgraded to a rebel smoker, ex drunk, starving artist type.  The universe is systematically removing me of vices. No more cocaine to remove the feeling in my face, or my soul. No more gladly lightening the heft of men’s pocketbooks. Easy cum, not so easy gone.   No more good friend gin.

I traded in my bottles for packs of smokes.  You’ve got to leave me something to do with all these sober, often painfully conscious hours.  And despite how cool and fun it is being healthy,  and fit, teaching trapeze…  Learning to be better and better at being human…  I feel a need for some rebellion.  Despite what Suicide Squad may have led you to believe, villains and hustlers don’t just wake up saints one day.

On the topic of imaginary friends from film and books, have you ever noticed how Angels and magical creatures like Elves, or Vampires always seem to want to be human?   Like they look at all the blissfully short, painful, stumbling lives we lead and think, “aw, to feel the bitter cold of winter, the torment of death, and the complete idiocy of humanity. “

I call bullshit.  I’d be like, “thank god I’m an elf.”

Speaking of which,  seeing as all of these beings are giving it all up for the beautiful shit hole of eat, live, breathe, love, poop, die; I’m thinking there may be some magical openings for a girl to move up.  Just saying… If you know someone who knows someone…

Speaking of human experience.  I just watched a grown woman run two city blocks for a bus, only for it to pull away just as she reached it.  And when I say, run, I mean waddle quickly.  2 city blocks is a long way to fast waddle only to have to wait another 20-30 minutes, or fork up $20 (most likely 1-2 hours of her pay) for another form of transportation home from your shitty job. Not to mention,  its pretty humiliating.

So, yeah, while I’m probably not cut out for angel status, I think I could be a pretty good Elf or ooh, Valkyrie.  Wings and sexy warriors would be a pretty sweet perk.  Anything to escape this wretched human condition.

Unless of course I have to give up sleep.  Because, I love sleep.


August 30, 2016

Hello, my name is Jooni, and I’m a Vampire.  Or an ex-coke and booze fiend.  Whatever.

I went to my ex booze fiend meeting today.  Where I identify only as an ex booze-fiend, because coke was just to stay awake and emotionally detached from all the long hours with my favorite Marks and Strippers.  So, I’m not really a coke-fiend, but I sure as shit miss my booze sometimes.  My goodbye letter to alcohol was 6 pages.  I’ve said goodbye forever to people in 6 characters.  Text message: BuhBye.  Short and sweet.  I’m actually not sure I ever texted that to someone, just like that.  But, it sounds about right, creative license and all.

Anyways, people were sharing about cocaine.  And in this meeting we all were invited to share on our speakers’ story and how we related.  Well, I did do cocaine.  But, of all the glorious war stories littering these digital pages, the only thing I could think of to share, was The Vampire Scare.  This is sort of a misnomer.  The Vampire Scare sounds like an isolated incident.  The truth is, it was more of a state of being.  It would visit only after 9am, on rare occasions when I had to take a subway home (after a night of profound ingestion of white powders), rather than a cab.  Probably because I was partying until noon the next day with our drug dealing owners because I didn’t make much money the night before.  And being sent home after noon at a club that you’re supposed to return to later that evening, should be its own sort of awkward.  But I don’t remember, I was just too high to care, and possibly blackout drunk.

This state should never have to be combined with normal people, at normal times of the day, in normal person modes of transportation.  Holding it together for 45 minutes on this kind of train ride, is like trying to pretend you perfectly fit in as you walk across Mars with no oxygen, in high heels, with an audience of bitter NYC theater critics.  I think.

Looking back, I think the thing that started to happen to me in this particular state and environment, had a combination of influences.

a) I hadn’t slept and it was daylight.  And daylight was bright and hot, loud, and annoying.

b) Drugs and Alcohol mess with your brain.  Duh.

c) I didn’t like ‘normal’ people living ‘normal’ lives.  They didn’t know what the world was really like.  They were judging me.  As if there was something wrong with me, or something.

I started to believe that I was becoming a vampire.  I started to believe that maybe this was where the myths came from.  From workers of the night, becoming sensitive to daylight, hustling their victims, surviving.  I was stronger than them.  I knew things they didn’t.  I dared them to mess with me in my mind, the judgemental fucks.  That’s what that numbness in my jaw, that grinding was really all about.  Maybe I was growing my fangs.

Of course, I didn’t really believe this with full sincerity.  I was high, I was imagining myself as powerful and okay, duh.  The part of my brain that worried that it could be true, read too many supernatural suspense novels.  Or maybe the coke we were getting  at the club was cut with some early, tamer version of bath salts those nights.  Unsolved mystery.  But, I’m pretty sure starting to believe that you’re becoming the immortal Undead is dangerously close to becoming the actual dead, just in case anyone can relate.  No one?  Okay, cool.  I mean, yeah, me neither.  It’s just a pretty funny story.  Right?  Me and my crazy imagination…


What is this story?

August 29, 2016

There is a world that most people will never know.  There are several such worlds, I suppose.  And I have lived only in the ones I’ve lived in. Dark rooms, lines of coke and unending gin and sodas.  Hours that feel like they may never end.  How bright tiny lights can feel in that darkness, seeming real.  Wondering if I’ll ever know how to live in the light.  Being someone’s drug of choice.  Like they’re choosing between gin or vodka, could take you or leave you.  But once they’ve chosen you for the night, the desperate clinging to any pleasure, or the drowning in their particular pain, you are a necessity, an integral part.

That doesn’t mean that others can’t relate to parts of my story.  Like walking through a shadow on an otherwise sunny day.  We all have shadows.  What is it about me that compelled me, maybe still compels me to dive into that darkness?  To see what it really is, to risk never getting out, in order to better understand?

What led me to the danger of the edge?  What makes the safe feel so absolutely trapping and unbearable?  So boring.  Is it pride, greed, defiance, laziness?  Is it a perverted need to feel alive by surviving?  Or is it as psychologically mundane as trying to make my outsides match my inside?  Where else does a depressed, lost girl go?  So, did I find a home among my own shadowy worlds?  I tried.  With desperation and a stubborn will to win.  And I did survive.  I am still surviving.  But, despite all of the tools at my disposal, I’m not sure that I am capable of thriving.  And looking back, I’m not sure my dark worlds are really to blame.  For, perhaps there was a darkness already there.  Of course, I’m entirely sure it didn’t really help any either.  But, like all things, there is always growth.  These stories are to truly tell what happened.  To me, to others.  Happened to me.  Happened to others.  And to tell myself, and others.  So that maybe we can better understand the shadows we are so curious about.  Because everyone is curious.  The light in their eyes as they try to kindly ask the questions about that world belies them.

I do not regret my exploration of that world.  There were twinklings of light as well.  And plenty of foolishness to laugh at.  But the truth is, not everyone gets out alive.  Am I lucky?  It’s hard to say right now.  But I’m here, and I want to tell my story.

Welcome to the Underground

August 14, 2016

Humans, at least Americans, seem fascinated with the image of the Speakeasy.  The idea of defying the law, and fighting for our right to party isn’t new.  I’d be willing to bet dollars to garter belts, that it never really was unpopular.  But, from my vantage, the culture seems to be bigger than ever.  There are Speakeasy’s and Blind Pigs in practically every neighborhood this wanderer has wandered.  Perhaps it is a guarantee of success to style your pub, fundraiser, or movie setting after this most popular phase of the American Fiesta?

And I think I know a little bit about what a speakeasy might have really been like. I think I’ve seen at least a glimpse of the true nature of the underground.  See, people are charmed by the dark, but smiling nature of such a place.  Like in a Haunted House, we get the thrill of fear; with the reassurance that it was all fake after all, and we are fine.  That drug raid wasn’t real.  Just a drill.  And well, good thing too, because if there is a real drug raid, I feel assured that the plan to evacuate me out the back door, over the roof, or hide me in the back of the walk in freezer, is an excellent plan.

I was a part of the show, the smiling welcome-wagon of joyfully, self-expressed seduction and sensuality.  “We are here, in secrecy, because the laws are stupid,” says my smile. But beneath these lying eyes, is some knowledge of the truth.  The real secret is that to run an underground, like any show, there is a behind the scenes. Sometimes those secrets are hidden in a particular Undergrounds’ underground vault, sometimes the locked rooms of the upstairs, or the back of the restaurant’s walk-in freezer.  Sometimes those secrets are hidden in an individual’s memories of a Private room (locked or un-locked).

For me, the illegal party’s goods were people and drugs.  And there is a reality that as part of that world, people die.  People are used.  All along the line of supply to you the patron.  I am lucky never to have witnessed a Mark have a heart-attack.  I’ve known some to develop a heart condition that didn’t stop them from their coke and sex habit.  I’ve known some of my smiling comrades to die from direct or indirect effects of our lifestyle.  Further down the line, the people that trade in the bloody drugs you and I prefer, pay with their souls, and the risk of an untimely end, or unending prison term; but we will all still smile while delivering these tainted goods for you, at least as long as you pay.

Girls (and boys too) dabble with the notion of making money from their ‘wares’ like entrepreneurial crafter’s on Etsy.  They paint, gloss, and sculpt the product and hustle to sell it for independence.  No, we don’t think this should be illegal.  Neither, I think, do I.  Illegalizing alcohol formed Organized Crime.  Illegalizing drugs has given us a drug war.  Women should be allowed to choose what they do with their bodies, even if they may not make the best choice.  Not every drug user becomes a junkie.  Not every drinker becomes a drunk.  And not every woman in the sex industry is lost.  But many are.  And maybe with legalization, agencies for help in all of these areas would be more socially acceptable and accessible.  Of course, legalization would take all the fun of secrecy away.

But, for now, my particular underground of sin remains at least partly illegal, these noble agencies of regulation have not become mainstream.  So do not worry.  We are your accomplices.  We are the deity on the left shoulder of your psyche.  We are happy with our job, we love what we do. You haven’t done any harm by engaging in these transactions.  Quite the opposite.  Come and enjoy our rebellious playground.  [Dark Wink].


I Learned.

September 4, 2014

I walked the night,
the one with red light
streaming, pulsing, grinding, panting.
Making an extreme choice to live
my life. Outside your pedanting.
My stubborn nature hurts me
more than you. And so helps see
me through to my end goal too.
Before, I thought, will my love so true,
still love me after?
No. Now I see. This chapter
broke me into shards that murdered love.
Yet still I am loved with far fewer conditions than I imagined.

So I must learn to live again.  And again.

This time, un-ginned…