On Fire by Penny Flame
Due to a lack of internet connection, todays blog actually occurred on Wednesday,
Today I learned a very valuable lesson in time management. That lesson pretty much revolves around how terrible I am in figuring my timing, and that fucks me as far as managing it goes. For instance, if I had not taken four bong loads this morning before I went to the airport, I probably would not have spent 15 minutes trying to check onto the wrong airline (us airway, not airbus you fool), or arguing with the lady that "no, goddamnit, I am on one of your motherfucking planes" and THEN I wouldn't have had to spend another 5 minutes apologizing to that same woman, if I had just taken the time to look at my itinerary, and then with those additional twenty minutes I would have beeen able to check into my real flight on time, and I wouldn't have had to watch the thing board without me, and leave...without me. If I had only taken the time.
So, now I'm in Phoenix, and until two hours ago, I had hope. A small hope that I would be getting on a standby flight, (because I missed the first flight, I missed my layover) a little flight I like to refer to as 2888 to Austin, and sure enough, as soon as I start talking to everyone around me, a bad habit I know, I realize, "every motherfucker in here is on standby. How many people missed their planes this morning, and why the fuck is everyone going to Austin???"
Okay, I can handle this, I'm okay, I'll make it. I have good luck! Just because the day has not been going my way thus far, doesn't mean it can't start now. So I decide to cross my fingers. I'm number 6 on a list of about 16, so that's a good chance right? Not a bad one by far.....they gotta let at least 6 of us on the plane!
WRONG FLAMER! YOU ARE WRONG WRONG WRONG! NOBODY gets on this plane. Not a single soul. In fact, they start offering "alternative" methods of getting there: you can fly to dallas and take a 4 hour bus ride into Austin, or you can go fuck yourself in the bathroom and cry into your cum covered hand. I decide that neither of these options are good for me, (especially since I don't travel with my vibrator, it's a little hard to masturbate on the road), so I call Southwest, and book a different flight entirely. The lady says its the last seat available of the day, and I swoop on that while the guy next to me overhears, picks up his cell in a mad dash to make a reservation, only to be let down and left with the previous options. Wait, or fuck yourself.
Either way I have to wait. So what is my best waiting activity you may ask? DRINKING AT THE BAR!!!!
And now that I'm sitting here, I can't help but wonder. (this is what I look like when I wonder btw)
Have I started intentionally sabotaging my trips just so that I can get drunk and make friends I will never see again in airport bars? Is this a possibility? Hmmm.....
As I'm mulling this over, I notice a table full of gentlemen, albeit probably not genteel, they are indeed men, and they are at a table. I hear soft murmurs each time I try to flag down a waitress I can only assume isn't servicing my section, and soon notice that there are whispers at another table of men, two of em, and I don't know what they are saying, but I know its about me. I start to get nervous. Maybe I should leave, maybe I should pull my hat down over my head, maybe I should hide under the table so nobody talks about me anymore. what to do, what to do.
Finally the sweetest little waitress in the joint (and probably the only one; I think the lady I was flagging was the bartender) comes over and apologizes over and over about taking so long to get to me. I say "honey, don't you worry about a thing. I've already missed two flights today, kept an entire bar of people waiting, and now, that I have three extra hours in the airport, I am willing to wait as long as it takes. Its my karmic resolution. And she looks busy anyway. just keep the corona's coming, and a shot of patron with every other beer, and by the end of our time together, you will be waiting on my ass to leave!" She laughed, said she loves me, pat me on my LA hat covered head, and kept the beers coming.
(I actually wrote this incredible blog while I sat there, in that fun little Mexican Bar, and of course, my word program is being a biatch and won't let me copy and paste the motherfucker. So this is a revised, sober version. Never a bad thing though. You know I don't censor, so you won't miss out on the streaming consciousness of filth, my thoughts directly to the keys, and onto this page right here.)
As I sat there and wrote, I still notice both tables of men speaking quietly about (me?), and stealing glances as I pound down bottle after bottle. Finally, the two men leave and smile on the way out. Then the big table of guys stands to leave, and one wanders over to me....
"Are you a dancer?" he asks.
"duuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm.......eeerrrrrrrrhhhhh......." I have no response, because true to my form, I am a terrible liar, and I have no idea where this question is heading, or what the deeper meaning behind asking. I have been a ballerina, a tap dancer, a jazz finger wheeling lady, but now, all that remains is the naughty sexy stripper. (does he know? Does he know? fuck fuck fuck gotta answer flame, gotta give the man a fucking yes or no answer, that fucking easy, just say SOMETHING)
"ha ha...not for years. Um, I was, but now...uh..."
He laughs, says "you have great legs, I just figured it came from dancing," and I can't help but wonder if he smells the nervous sweat dripping down my back. Can he see the confusion in my eyes, does he notice me tap tap tapping my fingers like a bad poker player with no game face? Naw, he can't. He just likes my spandex. He doesn't know that I wear this outfit when I feature, hahahha, in fact, not many people do. Part of the reason is because this is not your typical feature dancing outfit.
Who wears baggy tee-shirts to strip, spandex like pat benatar, or some thuggish Northface boots in place of the 6 inch standard? Me. That's who, and that's why I worry about being recognized. I never thought about it before, but part of the reason why there is a slight possibility of public recognition is that I post pictures like these ones on sites like this. Y'all know what I look like before i suit up, and you know what I look like when I dress down. I don't know how many other girls do that shit, so I'm not sure how many women are recognized when out and about if they are just in their civilian attire. I never know how to handle it, never want to talk about the JOB when not on it, and am really nervous about being followed (thanks to years of marijuana use, the paranoia is insane, and hard to handle sometimes). In any case, the guy smiles, pays me another compliment, to which I respond with a deep blush spread across the cheeks, and goes with his little buddies to catch whatever flight to whatever destination.
Which is exactly what I need to do. Catch my last flight of the day so I'm not as big a fuck up as Ron Jeremy, who was also supposed to be attending the party night but opted instead to take a flight to England. Now I'm not sure how he fucked that one up. I understand how four bong loads could interfere with making a flight, but that flight happened at a later time. Ron doesn't have any excuse for fucking over these kind people of Spunk'd, or the Music Gym, which is the club that I am going tonight. No, I don't think he accidently got on the wrong plane, and ended up in England. I think his faux pas was intentional, and very rude.
But I guess not everybody is as dedicated to getting drunk all over the continent as I.
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