American Shithole #18 — Moving and the Traveling Salesman
I’d love to spare some time this week for Trump’s on-again, off-again (just kiss him already!) love affair with Li’l Kim, or the 1,475 missing migrant children lost due to inhumane policy changes at the DOJ, or whatever else tops the news from now until Thursday in the maelstrom of bile and garbage that is Washington, but I’ve been distracted by my own triumvirate — a difficult household move, an incompetent painting crew, and a door-to-door salesman whose life must’ve depended on selling just one more security package.
Being an escort for me was like being a scrapbooker on Etsy for most other single moms trying to pick up some extra money. The only difference was that I could make a few thousand bucks for one hour of potential discomfort versus making a few hundred for several hours of suffering through handmade clip art. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but I cannot for one second believe that there is any joy in being hunched over a desk, cutting and pasting other people’s memories together. It seems so lonely and juvenile.