So, the thing is, my house really is in the 'hood. The neighborhood itself is an adorable oasis within a questionable (but improving) geographic area. As such, during my daily commute, I often pass one or more prostitutes on the road. "How do you know they are prostitutes?" you ask. I am telling you, you just know. There is a huge part of me that is terribly saddened by the poverty and desperation I know are driving forces in these women's lives. I can't imagine that being my life. I feel sickened, grateful and a little guilty every time I see one of them walking along and scouting...
That being said, there is a particular prostitute, a scrawny, chain-smoking, mullet-sporting white woman (the only white prostitute I have seen in these parts), with sunken pock-marked cheeks, scared eyes, and an assortment of daisy dukes and flip flops -- whom I have come to think of as my prostitute. I find myself searching for her as I drive along. I feel bereft and mildly disappointed if I don't see her. I get excited when I bring someone over to the house and we pass her on the street. I have actually flung out my arm, and exclaimed gleefully "There she is! There's my prostitute!" and been literally excited that her existence has been confirmed by one of my friends. (Now that Shannon lives here, I think of her more as our prostitute).
What the hell is wrong with me?
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4 comments:
Maybe you could give her a pet name?
i've always wanted my own prostitute.
She sounds like the old, homeless prostitute who used to come into our bookstore. One of the managers nicknamed her "Joey Heatherton."
I doubt it's the same person, though, because my store's in Buckhead, and I doubt that prostitutes travel.
Can you have a "Name that Hooker" contest?
How about "White Lightning?"
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