Prince Charming?

Most people call me Nemy, mainly because I hate my real name. I got the nickname because I was born on Friday the 13^th and because I'm a fighter, and I’m certain there was a full moon that night, too, which would explain my need to shed my human skin and go full mega-bitch on people at times, aside from the fact that I am a bitch. It’s pretty much because of men. I hate them at this point. Their whiny-ass, lame-ass excuses for everything under the sun. Their pretending to still be involved while they try to find a way out, no matter how much you love them, or how much you’ve done for them; they don’t see it. They tell you that you need counseling. HA! I know just how broken I am, thank you, and I’m fine with that. I also know how to fix it, which entails getting rid of them. Two men. One treated me like his own personal mental punching bag, the other tossed me to the curb like a cigarette, with a nice little flick of “fuck you” thrown in before I hit. Seven years with one; eight with the other. That’s almost half my lifetime, or almost a third of it. Either way, it’s a lot of time wasted on them. Well, no, maybe wasted isn’t correct. I’ve learned valuable lessons, that’s for sure. If I didn’t think women would do the same, I’d switch sides, but they do it, too. I’ve witnessed it through friends. People grow apart. It’s human nature, I suppose; but really, the daunting task is to find that one person who shares the same interests… throughout your lifetime. I thought I had that, though. I’m certain several women out there thought the same thing. Maybe men, too. Who the fuck knows?

The last one moved to Colorado. We decided on it together. I was supposed to go with him, but things drastically changed within a very short amount of time. My instinct tried to warn me, but we women never listen to our gut when we’re in love. Not fly-by-night love, or new-relationship love. Seven years of unconditional love with an engagement ring on my damn finger. So much for unconditional. I still wear the ring, only for the fact that it keeps most men away from me. It’s my excuse for getting out of dates when they see me dressed in a leather bustier and low-rise jeans, looking like something reminiscent of a Bettie Page poster. Yeah, I know what men like. I’ve actually received a tip for “looking so good in clothes.” Men are strange creatures.

Me, I’m a writer, which means I also have to work for a living. It’s a fairly solitary life, unless one can find someone who gets the fact that a writer spends a good portion of their off time writing. That’s hard to find, and I’ve gone through two now in fifteen years. It causes some strange form of insecurity within those who don’t share the passion. I don’t have that much more time to waste on men like that. I suppose hate is a strong word, though, so it’s more like I dislike them.

I’m a bartender at a strip club. Laugh all you want, a girl doesn’t have to take off her clothes to make bank. I’m pretty sure the owner makes bank, too, but that kind of shit doesn’t matter to me. I’m not a gold digger like some women I’ve met. The neurotic strippers I work with crack me up, though, thinking they can find Prince Charming working at a place like this. I await the day Prince Charming walks up to me, because I’m going to punch that fucker dead in the face. If he sticks around after that, he’s a keeper.