When I answer that call, the real me slips from mind, and I am gone and I become she.
She with no memory, no family, no baggage. She who can do whatever she wants whenever the feeling strikes her.

She, unlike me, can do things without being bothered by what her friends say about her cooking. Unlike me, she's free from judegment by every single fucking person around her. She doesn't have to deal with her mother wondering if she's going to drop those last few pounds, or with her father constantly telling her she needs to do better in school, and she sure as fuck doesn't have to deal with the stress of ungrateful friends pulling on her limb to limb.

The thing I miss with this job is co workers. I miss having co workers and another life.
I live with three friends that also go to my university. A flaming homosexual, a technology geek and a hypochondriac. And the last two unite to become an oversexxed couple. She's too sick to do her dishes but she can still fuck him later that night. But because they go to my school, are my friends, and live with me...they begin to monopolize my time. And when I bring over a friend separate from them...they suck them into their lives too so I no longer have a place free from them

When I worked at a Dairy Queen for six years, there was that other part of my life. When I played soccer for 11 years, that was a separate life. Field hockey, separate life. I had all of my separate lives to be who I wanted to be when I wanted to be....

I think that might be the reason why when I went out to a pub the other night, I pretended to be Scottish. I had my accent, made my story as I went, flirting with the men flirting with me. Oh God it was fun to be so free again. So completely free from all the shit dragging me down. I had that separate life, the freedom from me in reality.

I was -she- in reality...not just in fantasy anymore. I was sexy and confident. I had men wrapped around my little finger, drinks coming from there, asking for my number from over there.

I made my pick and went home with a man that night. I made the mistake of giving him my real number.
He called when I was with my friends. They asked who it was. And I made another mistake of saying who it was and divulging my secret story.

Here I am again. In my little bedroom alone, surrounded by the noise of them outside my door. Eating neopolitan icecream. And I wait for him to call. Not the guy who thinks I'm scottish him, but the ambiguous him that will call me to be She.

I want my separate lives back...I want to have secrets again.

Thougts

Day in and day out I'm me but hardly anyone really sees that. I may regale them with tales of my operating, my own personal sexploits,and the insanity of my family, but they don't know me.

Do your friends know you beyond what you tell them? Beyond that façade that you so cleverly hide behind? I think the more you look at it, you'll soon find that they don't.

Someone said to me the other day, merely in passing, that he wished hecould have a life as normal as mine. He's someone who considers himself the best of friends to me, yet he said that still, and completely demeaned my human experience thus far.

I suppose it's my own fault, though, for not wearing my heart on my sleeve any more. I don't tell them about the sickness in my family, I don't tell them about how I feel after sleeping with a man that I can't even remember his last name. But does that mean that they can chalk my experiences that they do know about up to some kind of normal?

It's not possible to equate someone else's life experiences with this trumped up idea of normalcy.

Considering what I do for a living and what I aspire to be, my life is anything but this idea of "normal." Our lives are all different, beautiful, fucked up and twisted but in their own special way. hOne person's idea of normal is another's idea of hell.

So, here I sit in my university sweater in my little room in a house of people who don't really know me, signing in to work where no ones knows me, waiting for the men to call me before they get ready for work, or after they arrive home from a night shift.

Girl of the moment:

Ava She's 22 years old, 120lbs, 5'6'', big brown eyes with wavy light brown hair and a 36DD chest.

Putting on the headset...microphone close to parted lips, and the call comes into her.

"Hey baby, how you doing?"

With a little stretch and a yawn, "I just woke up. I'm a little sleepy still..."

"You know, I like it when you're just waking up. I like the thought of sliding my hand
up your silky smooth legs, slipping a finger up that warm, wet..."

His breath echoing through the earpiece, she softly moans, telling him just how she's touching herself just for him....while she reads the play for class in three hours.

how...normal.