Hello, citizens of Torn City. My name is Lorraine Saint Whore. I was born in a dusty, garbage-ridden town in this country. At 15 I just knew I had to leave that tiny place and try to find my star on another place in the world, but you don't care how old I am or where do I come from and I don't care about telling you anything else. Why would it matter anyway?
We're stuck in here together. Whether we were born in this city by the mere whims of fate, or we came here to escape from some other place, some other life, or to find ourselves, or some positive "I'mma eat the world" mentality bull... We're here and that's all there is to it. We can't do anything about it. Some are royals. Self-made billionaires with tons of time in their hands. Others sleep in a pee-smelling mattress, lying awake at night, wondering what went wrong and why they can't afford a good, warm meal. Some don't sleep because they are flying as high as whatever the hell they snorted allows them to. Never taking off from the ground.
I'm here because I'm trying to make sense of it all before it's too late.
How does a bastard, orphan, daughter of a whore and a drunkard, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in Torn City, by providence impoverished, in squalor grow up to be ... all this...?
Think of this blog as a confession. But instead of going to pray to an invisible friend like a 5-year-old, I will actually let go of everything in my chest. If you don't like it, don't read it. I'm sure there are plenty of other websites out there to visit. From porn to gun shops, to the news. You can read any other webpage out there. But you're here tonight in Torn City, reading this. The memoirs of a former prostitute. A former bartender. A former thief. A widow. A former scammer. And I'm not even 40 yet!
I once went the honest route you know? Sure, I stole a fake I.D from a drunk girl who was on college. But it was a time full of promises and a time full of energy. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Why a high-schooler was at a college party I will probably never remember. Maybe I was chasing after someone. Maybe an older friend took me there. It has been so long since I had "friends" that I can't even remember their fresh baby faces full of hope. After getting that fake I.D. I began the fabulous first nights of my unlimited Nightclub run.
I started serving drinks at tired truck drivers on a bar on the outskirts of my town. I was 18. 21 if you asked the owner of the establishment though. I paid the last years of my high school education by serving drinks to middle-aged men and looking cute. A damn good deal if you ask me.
Later, I got "promoted" to becoming a dancer. The clear stilettos and the fake nails. The body glitter and the scent of the dressing rooms at the end of the night. But sorority is a lie that all women tell each other to feel better after they've been catty and petty. After some of the older women began messing with my money and my scheduled performances, I then had to resort to other types of work at the club to get by. I opened a huge one-woman show every night in the private booths at the club. And when it comes to huge openings, a lot of people think of me. Many more of you, though, have only recently become aware of me. Doesn't matter. If you are here, I hope these tales serve you well.
I got tired of people choosing their own menu though. If you are here, you will only get what is served. No complaints, no refunds.
Lorraine Saint Whore. At your service. Former everything; now, a modern-day Bard.
There's way too much information to decode the Matrix. You get used to it, though. Your brain does the translating. At this point of life I don't even see the code. All I see is blonde, brunette, redhead... God, I need a drink.
And speaking about holes, I'll tell you about my friend Likey...
He used to take good care of men in public bathrooms, until one day he rosebudded and had to retire. So he sold me a very good Chanel imitation afterwards. He used to say that "There's nothing like a Chanel to feel respectable."
One day, I was working on the street and a woman came up to me, touched the hem of the jacket and told me "hey, is it real?" so I said to her: "Nah ma'am, how could I buy a real Chanel with all the hunger in the world!"
There's way too much information to decode the Matrix. You get used to it, though. Your brain does the translating. At this point of life I don't even see the code. All I see is blonde, brunette, redhead... God, I need a drink.
Hello, citizens of Torn City. My name is Lorraine Saint Whore. I was born in a dusty, garbage-ridden town in this country. At 15 I just knew I had to leave that tiny place and try to find my star on another place in the world, but you don't care how old I am or where do I come from and I don't care about telling you anything else. Why would it matter anyway?
We're stuck in here together. Whether we were born in this city by the mere whims of fate, or we came here to escape from some other place, some other life, or to find ourselves, or some positive "I'mma eat the world" mentality bull... We're here and that's all there is to it. We can't do anything about it. Some are royals. Self-made billionaires with tons of time in their hands. Others sleep in a pee-smelling mattress, lying awake at night, wondering what went wrong and why they can't afford a good, warm meal. Some don't sleep because they are flying as high as whatever the hell they snorted allows them to. Never taking off from the ground.
I'm here because I'm trying to make sense of it all before it's too late.
How does a bastard, orphan, daughter of a whore and a drunkard, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in Torn City, by providence impoverished, in squalor grow up to be ... all this...?
Think of this blog as a confession. But instead of going to pray to an invisible friend like a 5-year-old, I will actually let go of everything in my chest. If you don't like it, don't read it. I'm sure there are plenty of other websites out there to visit. From porn to gun shops, to the news. You can read any other webpage out there. But you're here tonight in Torn City, reading this. The memoirs of a former prostitute. A former bartender. A former thief. A widow. A former scammer. And I'm not even 40 yet!
I once went the honest route you know? Sure, I stole a fake I.D from a drunk girl who was on college. But it was a time full of promises and a time full of energy. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Why a high-schooler was at a college party I will probably never remember. Maybe I was chasing after someone. Maybe an older friend took me there. It has been so long since I had "friends" that I can't even remember their fresh baby faces full of hope. After getting that fake I.D. I began the fabulous first nights of my unlimited Nightclub run.
I started serving drinks at tired truck drivers on a bar on the outskirts of my town. I was 18. 21 if you asked the owner of the establishment though. I paid the last years of my high school education by serving drinks to middle-aged men and looking cute. A damn good deal if you ask me.
Later, I got "promoted" to becoming a dancer. The clear stilettos and the fake nails. The body glitter and the scent of the dressing rooms at the end of the night. But sorority is a lie that all women tell each other to feel better after they've been catty and petty. After some of the older women began messing with my money and my scheduled performances, I then had to resort to other types of work at the club to get by. I opened a huge one-woman show every night in the private booths at the club. And when it comes to huge openings, a lot of people think of me. Many more of you, though, have only recently become aware of me. Doesn't matter. If you are here, I hope these tales serve you well.
I got tired of people choosing their own menu though. If you are here, you will only get what is served. No complaints, no refunds.
Lorraine Saint Whore. At your service. Former everything; now, a modern-day Bard.