I could never be a stripper, now that I think of it. I am walking past Diamond’s Gentlemen’s Club right next to the tattoo parlor (a sophisticated part of downtown), and I am realizing, now that I am sauntering by in my boys size 8 superman undies (freshly washed I might add) beneath these atrociously bedazzled jeans from Wal-Mart (size 10 in kids. Numbers are important my friend) that I could certainly not be a pole dancer, lap dancer, or “back-entrance” for 20 dollars woman. For one, I have never learned how to put on make-up; no mother didn’t teach me. Two, I’m very pale, so strobe lights are a no go. And three, I have never worn high-heels or a thong/G-string (butt floss). And that brings me to four, an epiphany of sorts. I don’t have adequate hindquarters. My dimensions are insufficient. With hips like hooks, and course wooly mammoth hair, not to mention that Thelma and Louise (my boobs) have seen better days. There’s no life for me in this sparkly slip and slide profession.

that he loved her that she loved him that they would be together forever that they would be married and have kids that he would get drunk and go after other women that she would go to the racetrack and they would go into debt that their kids would flunk out of school and do drugs and go into rehab or get married and have sick kids and die—that the couple who fell in love well, they would grow old and look at each other and wonder how they got to this place