I went looking on Google images for pictures of opium, the way I knew it. Black tar opium, the good stuff that clogs the lungs with viscous goo.

I found two images that startled me.



This first picture, which seems like a dumb, innocent chunk of obsidian, reminds me of what opium looked like when I’d peel it off the plastic bag I bought it in. I’d take the baggie home, slice it open, and peel the opium off. Opium is so smooth and malleable, it would hold the shape of the smooth plastic….

until I’d attach it to a quarter. So as you can see, this image quite literally took my breath away:


Looking at the blob in that picture, I see fingerprints.

I know exactly what it feels like when you peel your finger off a blob of opium. That blob looks like about $180 worth, circa my habit or 1999.

While the pictures do not awaken a beast inside of me who screams “Me want! Me want!”, the images do stir up memories.

I’ve been clean for five and a half years.

I’ve always had a Big Secret, and maybe that’s why I’m so good at keeping them.

When I was little, Mommy’s drug problem was a Big Secret. In fact, she encouraged me to lie to anyone as necessary to keep the secret.

When I was 16, living in my own pad was a Big Secret so my mom could continue to receive child support for my dad. In my early 20s, drugs became my own Big Secret, and so was stripping.

Now, I live a semi-normal life. Drugs and stripping are in the past, but believe me - they’re a Big Secret!!!

I think that’s why I’ve been driven to write Ex-Millennial Girl. I’m not a dumping place for secrets anymore, the place is getting full.

I realized, though, that on my blog, I keep my current life --- you guessed it --- a Big Secret!!!

As for keeping my past a secret for the people I currently deal with -- maybe that’s not wise. I mean, I AM an ex-stripper and ex-junkie. It’s part of who I am. If people knew that, and I owned it instead of hiding from it, I would be a much stronger person as far as the world is concerned. I think. I’m definitely thinking about it.

***UPDATED POST! (See note at bottom.)

Okay, so I watched that new "Who Wants to be the Next Pussycat Doll" show last night.
And yes, it's very entertaining. But I don't imagine it's a big hit with gay guys, and for some reason, that's what makes America's Next Top Model so special.

It's fierce. And fagulous.

But then there's the argument that the Pussycal Doll hopefuls face way more of a challenge than the Top Model wannabes do; they have to sing, dance, AND look fierce. Well, that may be true, but I ask you this:

Were they required to VOGUE THROUGH A MAZE OF LASERS?

*Well, no, but they had to learn choreography while singing-

Bzzt! Maze of Lasers?

*No, but-

WHAT? No Maze of Lasers? Didn't think so. ANTM rules and always will, if they keep this shit up.
****HEY! UPDATED! Enough time has passed, and I got the ENTIRE CHALLENGE on youtube, not just the trailer. *****

No, I’m not a stripper anymore. Just your average worker bee. I work in downtown Beverly Hills, belly of the beast, the No. 1 place to find Paris Hilton clones and walking plastic surgery nightmares.

One of the few places in this neighborhood I can afford to shop is the The Gap. But I stopped shopping there a while back. Right now, The Gap is doing very poorly financially, and I’ll tell you why, because I saw it happen. I predicted this shit.

*Less synthetics - The Gap stopped producing as much polyester and rayon fibered clothes. All that cotton clothing needs ironing, and there’s nothing casual about having to iron.

*Sweatshops - They’re a horrible offender in this area. Just deplorable.

*The Skinny Black Pant - The Audrey Hepburn ad campaign almost got me. I’m an “apple” body shape, so I’ve been waiting for skinny pants to come back in style so I can show off my naturally thin thighs. (Fuck you; I’ve been suffering through low-slung jeans for years now).

So I walk in and it’s almost impossible to find the pants. They weren’t sold out, just abysmally displayed. I finally found the pants - they were only available in their signature stiff cotton, the black dye just begging to fade after the first wash. Icky and cheap. I vowed to never pay attention to Gap ads again.

*Their Christmas campaign was lacking, just when they needed to shine. “Peace, Love, The Gap”? It struck me in my heart; that teenage girl I used to be who dreamt of a career in advertising. I could think up something better in my sleep. But instead of business school, I stripped at Scores. Oh well. Peace, Love, The Gap it is.



*Project (Red). What a load of crap! Well, they expect you to buy a load of crap. I don’t blame the celebrities who posed for this ad campaign - they’re only listening to their managers/handlers and are the bottom of the corporate food chain that thought this up. And Project (Red) is doing poorly. The corporate heads are bewildered. “Gee, all we tried to do was turn a huge profit and disguise it as philanthropy, what’s wrong with that?”

The very company that uses sweatshops to produce its cheap, low quality products, housing its workers in a type of prison on some god forsaken island out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, expects us to swallow the idea they care so much about African orphans and they’re busting their asses to give them aid (“and oh yeah, can you buy a few of our overpriced t-shirts to show your support?”) --- I fucking HATE The Gap, Victoria’s Secret (awful quality; sweatshops), Gymboree (Why shouldn’t your kid dress like Liberace? “If it’s not sequined, we won’t sell it!” - the kicker - their shit is made by starving children in sweatshops), Bath & Body Works (“Wash your body with our sodium laureth sulfate soaps so you’ll need/become addicted to our petrolatum based lotions!”; sweatshops again), Banana Republic (overpriced; sweatshops!), Old Navy (annoying, insulting commercials, sweatshops)

oh! And guess what? They’re all owned by the same parent company.

They blur the line
to claim their products are “Made in the USA.”

When caught (red) handed raping one country, they find new lands to exploit.

If you care about contributing to the Global Fund, bypass the bullshitting liars:

BUY (LESS) CRAP

I had a dream last night which affected me. Strangely. I will do my best to recount it for you, if you haven’t already left this entry -- yes, I know, people talking about their dreams is terribly boring.

Anyway.

I lived in a small town. The only famous thing about this little Midwestern town was Brad Pitt was born and raised there. In fact, I lived in the same old house he was raised in.

One day, I was sitting around with my family when unannounced, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, and their new baby walked into the house.

My family and I were used to this. We shared the house with the Jolie-Pitts. Their visits were special and sporadic, but they had full rights to the house just like we did.

Their baby was a redhead boy named Sam. (Maddox and Zahara were not present or mentioned.)

Once, we all sat in the living room and Brad Pitt walked out of the house to talk to a pretty girl.

“Go ahead, fuck her like you do anything else that moves,” Angelina muttered as he left.

He did seem to have a sexual addiction, and the erotic energy around him was so thick, you could practically see it.

I found myself alone in a bedroom with Brad Pitt. He kept getting close to my ear and whispering, trying to turn me on. All I felt was scared, because Angelina Jolie could walk in at any minute!

He stood behind me, wearing only boxers, rubbing his half hard-dick against my ass. He did this twice.

“I can’t, I’m married,” I said.

He rubbed me with his dick again.

It’s weird; none of this turned me on in my dream. All I felt was sick inside, because I saw how pathetic sexual addiction had made Brad. He was married to one of the world’s sexiest women, but any female would do.

“I would love to have fun with you, but I just can’t.” I said.

Finally, I sat in a chair and he got on his knees, jerking off. He came, probably a full cup of what looked like buttermilk.

I finally cracked a smile.

“You are a little cum-slut, aren’t you?” I smiled, mussing his hair.

Here’s a shout-out to anyone who reads my blogspot blog - especially. I hope you enjoy the hell out of this weekend, being Christmas.

Love it love it.

I’m sorry my blog is so bleak right now, not because I think it affects your life in a major way to read about my hopeless situation in 1999, but because I’m feelin so good lately. The current stuff does not reflect that.

I am not cooking a Christmas dinner this year - I will be at a matriarch’s house, and she’ll do it. But if I was? I would make enchiladas. I’ve never made enchiladas before but I think they’re very Christmasy for some reason. Or I would make lasagna.

See, I’m vegetarian and when a holiday revolves around a big bird or slab of meat, people think I’m missing out or judging them for eating meat. I’m not! I like stuffing and salad and mashed potatoes and cookies. And cake. I love the holidays, no matter what is served, as long as I can subsist on something. The spirit is still there, lingering. I dig it.

But if I had my choice . . .

Not me! My wisdom teeth were pulled on Friday, it's now Monday. My jaw is pretty swollen.
I look like "Fat" Weird Al Yankovic from the mouth down. The upper portion of my face looks normal, though.

It took 2 hours, 14 novocaine shots and one crying jag (mine) for those four fuckers to get out of my head, but they're out!! Yay!

Heyyy-aw! I’ve been taking yoga classes for four months now. I go three times a week, sometimes four. I can’t believe it’s only been four months, it feels like a lot longer.

Anyway, I finally did a posture last night in class -- well, I never thought I’d do this one! It’s called “Crow.”



The secret, I learned, is to keep your fingers as widely spaced apart as possible, and to use your chest and shoulders as if you were doing a push up. That way, the wrists don’t feel any strain whatsoever. I thought only men could do Crow!

Another posture I started doing recently: “Locust.” In Locust, depending on your strength and flexibility, the legs can extend back at varying degrees.

Here’s some crazy-ass freak doing Locust:


Here’s how I look doing locust, minus the blurry dock:


Locust used to frustrate and madden me. “Bullshit!” I’d think. “Those bitches’ legs are being pulled up by strings! Cheaters! Liars!” Locust works on the “pelvic floor” muscles, the same muscles used to stop from peeing your pants or to squeeze a cock during sex.

So now, post-Locust, I can insert a peeled banana into my vagina, flex a few times, and it comes out in slices; a real timesaver for tropical fruit salad. Right now I’m working on dicing tomatoes for salsa. So yeah, basically doing yoga and eating more fresh produce. It satisfies.

I Netflixed The Grudge because I been feelin’ Halloweeny lately. I was sooo in the mood to be scared: I turned off all the lights, lit three votives (just enough candle action to create mysterious flickers on my wall) and smoked a nice fat bowl that lasted the whole movie. What I wanted: to jump out of my skin.

What I got: Maddox Pitt-Jolie in green body makeup and thick black eyeliner (cute, edgy, but definitely not scary).

The female Grudge, who is supposed to be Maddox’s mother but looks plainly like a schoolgirl, annoyed the crap out of me. Instead of making even remotely scary faces, she’d just pop out and be like “What the fuuuuck?” Sometimes her face would convey a “Duh!” expression like she was implying Sarah Michelle Gellar was an idiot (which I won’t argue with) but - really? How is that scary?

The scene where the female Grudge goes up the bedsheets to kill a victim - holy shit, that was funny. Monsters traveling up bedsheets only spurs thoughts of oral sex, and dude, I bet a monster would be awesome at that.

OH MY GOD. It only gets better. It has been brought to my attention that Mastermind is a sex-ring sleazy racket that perpetuated for years! Around the world, even!

Yet another reason why the 70s were fuckin’ chill.

So yeah, I showed you these pics last time:






Pimp ‘n ho, pimp ‘n ho, yada yada.

So what is portrayed here? A gilded bachelorhood surrounded by women who, at the snap of a finger, will give a good blow job, refresh your mint julep, or “call the hounds”? But why must they be “Eastern” ladies? I can’t believe they put something so offensive on a !board game!

Look, they got one of the same guys for this cover, with a different lady.



I like her much better. The chick in the white dress – her heart isn’t in it. This other chick: easy elegance.

But really: what the hell?



* * * *

The following Mastermind boxcover is so far out, you might find yourself uncontrollably making a disco call. Toot-toot! Beep-beep!




Nancy (black dress): But I still don’t understand how to play-

Master: The other side! Look at the other fucking side of the card! I told you you’re a moron! All those night classes I been paying for, it’s a joke. Sherry, show Nancy how it’s done. Sherry. Such a hot piece of ass. And she knows it. We’ll never find Sherry in the toolshed with a needle in her arm trying to fuck a child’s sled.

Sherry: Master, you are so bad. (giggle)

Master: So we have two chicks, one dick. How about two dykes, one dick?

Sherry: That’s funny.

Nancy: You guys, I wish we could just-

Master: Shut the fuck up! Keep your mouth closed, or I’ll fill it real special. No more coke for you; it just fills up that empty head of yours.

* * *

In Brazil, they do away with formality. They hot-box their cigarettes, they play Senha, and their bitches will beat you senseless.


* * * *

At some point, Mastermind decided to clean up its act. For the kids and such.




“Mommy, who’s that strange man?”

“Hush now, he’s very generous. He gives Mommy security. Look, he bought us this board game.”

“No I didn’t. I traded it down at jai-lai for a liter of Popov. Looks brand new!”

* * *

I mean, would you trust this guy with kids? Would you???



For this picture, Goofy and Jiminy Cricket had to be tranquilized, Pinocchio and Donald Duck agreed on the grounds they could “keep a close eye on the bastard” and Mickey – well, Mickey’s just being his vacuous self. And is about to receive some seriously bad touching.

Recently, while reminiscing with a friend about the boardgames we played in our childhood, the subject turned to Mastermind. You know, the game with the little pegs that’s kinda like Battleship. I mentioned that we owned an old edition of the game, with a picture of a Pimp and Ho on the cover of the box. That’s always how I remember it, anyways. My friend did not remember this version.

Well, here it is:



When you’re 8 years old, you’re just old enough to know that adults like sex a whole bunch, and that sometimes they act weird about it. I remember the picture on the Mastermind box would give me uneasy feelings about sex and what I had to look forward to. Nothing in advertising is done without a specific purpose. So you wonder, Why is the guy so smug? Why is the girl Asian and dressed sexy? It’s baffling to a child. I thought that maybe adults took one glance at the picture and instantly knew the score, and it was one of those subjects “you don’t talk about in front of children.”

I searched for pictures of other Mastermind covers from other years. Imagine my shock when I realized they get even sleazier (circa 1974):



AAHHHHHHHHH hahahahah AAAAAAAAAA hahahaha

That is the most fucking ridiculous pimped out shit in the world! It so rules. Are those girls even of age?

Well, at least that wasn’t the version we owned when I was a kid, or I would’ve gotten nightmares.

It has come to my attention that most people did not grow up playing B Word Spice. How is this? B Word Spice was a favorite game for us Florida kids to play while in school.

In elementary school, it was fun. It middle school, it hurt like hell and in high school, it was a guilty pleasure.

Here are the rules:

First, you have to be at school. B Word Spice is pointless anywhere else.

The game is, basically, you talk and act completely normal, except for when you utter a word that starts with "b". If you dare to do so, you must instantly say the word "spice."

If not, everyone gets the full right to punch you on the arm as hard as they can. (A good game strategy is to edit "b" words from your normal conversation). It's good times.

Example 1: "No way, I don't believe-spice that!" This example is an ideal uttering. The "spice" comes immediately after the b word, giving other participants no time to even raise their fists.

Example 2: "Lemme see, I think it's in my bookbag..." A millisecond passes, and upon seeing five people lunge at him with murder in their eyes, the person remembers to yell "Spice! Spice!" at the last second.

Example 3: "Whatever, he forgot to bring his homework." At this point, almost everyone has forgotten the game. Hours have passed. It is now afternoon. But someone finally whispers something to a pal, and punches are thrown.

"OWW!"

"You forgot to say "spice"!"

"That was first period, asshole! It's three o clock!"

"You didn't say spice."

This is where it gets messy.

I had a headache this week. It lasted for three days. Today, if I’m lucky, will the first full days sans headache.

I had the headache because (this is a guess) I smoked shitty weed.

I smoked shitty weed because I wanted to do something illicit; I can’t drink alcohol.

I can’t drink alcohol because I’m an alcoholic.

I’ve never been to an AA meeting, but every time I drink, I puke. And then I get a headache.

My favorite time of year is fall. Autumn.

In fall, I want to wear something soft and tight to feel cozy and sexy. I wish I had a thin, tight cashmere sweater. Then I’d be in heaven.

I can’t help but be happy in the fall - the breezy, dry weather and amber sunlight make me feel love. Love for everything. Like I’ve just fallen in love. Like that boy over there has a crush on me but he’s too afraid to tell me, and I’m too afraid to tell him, but we can’t stop smiling and looking at each other.

I want to create things in the fall. I was to show these things to anybody who’ll look. A quirky purse, maybe embroider a headband. Put beads on it.

I want to look pretty in the fall. A little more eyeshadow, some mascara. A new velvet color on my lips.

I want to fuck in the fall. The UPS guy, a dorky college student, a chunky girl I think might be a lesbian. Or not - maybe we’d be each other’s best kept secret.

I want to sit in a green field, surrounded by dead leaves that have baked all day, giving off their awesome smell, wearing that cashmere, my head resting on the UPS guy’s shoulder, eating frosted sugar cookies shaped like leaves, laughing about dumb things and then fucking for hours. There.

It’s that time of year again, when the Harry & David catalogs arrive in my mailbox.

And I get to be treated with this lovely, lurid image in every issue:



I mean, are you looking at this thing? Imagine you are boredly thumbing through a catalog of thoughtful corporate gifts and all of the sudden - full-page moist, juicy pear penetration!

You know how hard it is to find this image online? Harry & David know their shit. This is a special image, specifically for catalogs - every catalog.

What does this say to you?

Guys? Would you like to fuck this pear?

Ladies? How about this spoon?


Ahh, Christmastime - is this when emergency rooms see the most stainless-steel on labia wounds?


“David?”

“Yes, doctor?”

“As for the swelling and itching you’re experiencing in your urethra - we’ve ruled out any disease. But what we’ve found is very unusual. Several small masses of …. very … juicy….pear.”

Okay, guess what?

When using a public restroom, there is a proper way and an improper way to check if a stall is occupied.

Proper Way:

Walk near the stall in question. With eyes averted to the ceiling or floor, gently rap on the door with a knuckle or fingernail. If no one answers, all systems are go.

IMPROPER WAY, ASSHOLES:

The inexcusably improper way is to walk up to the stall, PEER INTO the gap between the door and the doorjamb, and then say, “Oh, excuse me” before traipsing off to another stall. THERE IS NO EXCUSE for such behavior and next time I will be armed with a knife which I will thrust out of said doorjamb-gap into the waiting eyeballs of anyone else who uses this improper method.

Dream, Last Night:

I was back home in Florida, at a trailer park, grudgingly having sex with some dumb, young shirtless redneck. Because I was bored. I didn't even want to be fucking him.

This is him: "I have to stop now."

This is me: "Why?"

Him: "My sores are bothering me."

Me: "Your WHAT?! Your fucking sores??"

Him, dully: "Yeh."

Last night I had a dream that affected me so much, I was sad to wake up and realize it never happened.

My mother came to California to visit me, and when we were alone, sitting on my bed together, she asked me, “Do you think the troubles you’ve had and the problems you deal with have anything to do with the way I treated you as a child?”

This question floored me, and I said “Yes!”

This alone would be a breakthrough if it ever happened in real life; my mother dodged any responsibility she had to care, shelter, feed, and clothe me and still dodges any accusations that she might have failed in any way as a mother, even though she blatantly neglected me and abused drugs in front of me every day.

The rest of the dream consisted of her further fessing up. It filled me with such an inner peace.

1996:



2006:


I guess since it’s been ten years, we consumers/movie goers have bought, processed, eaten, spent, and shit out so much, there’s no reason to try anymore. Fuckers aren’t even trying.

I started this up to broaden my horizons. Since my blogspot blog takes place in 1999, maybe I’ll use my livejournal to post current events. I don’t know yet.

From what I can see, there are google ads at the top of this page, which is disgusting and annoying. If anyone knows how to disable them, please tell me.

To peek into the life of an opium addicted Scores stripper, visit my blast-from-the-past blogspot blog:

www.ex-millennialgirl.blogspot.com