Forty five minutes later Stacy was in the dressing room packing up her belongings. Where was she going? The night shift did not end for another 4 hours. Stacy snottily informed me that she was going home so the other dancers could make some money. The implication was clear: Stacy knew she was better looking than the other girls in the bar and now she was pretending to feel sorry for us! What a complete fucking bitch. Sadly, I was just relieved that she was leaving. I knew I’d start making money after she took off because my competition would be gone. I swallowed back my feelings of bitter resentment and began retouching my makeup in the mirror. Having a profitable evening would certainly help heal my wounded pride. I could barely wait until Stacy was gone. It did seem to be taking an inordinate amount of time for her to count her money.

She must have caught one of the impatient sidelong glances I was shooting in her direction because all of a sudden she strode towards me with a fistful of money in her hand. “You know,” she began, “it really would behoove you not to spend so much time in the dressing room. You are not as pretty as you used to be and every minute counts in your dwindling dancing career. Do yourself a favor and go mingle with some customers. You really need to expand the use of your existing assets. Those assets are not going to be attractive for much longer. I’ve seen how much vodka you drink- just imagine what you are going to look like when you are 30.”

Both the cruelty and the pomposity of her statement hit me like two separate slaps in the face. All I could think to say was: “Give me your damn money, bitch! I am going to take ALL your motherfucking money, you stuck-up little twat!!”