Category Archives: Old journals

All my journals

Journals

All my journals

 I have about 29 journals give or take.  I’m going to comb through them all and then try to sell them to pay off my debt.  It will take me a while to get thru them all.  I don’t want to sell them individually, it has to be all or nothing.  My debt is up to $16,000.  So if anyone has 16 grand lying around, you can invest in some good reading.  Also they will be worth a lot more once I become famous.

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I changed my mind.  I’m going to sell them individually.  I just want to get rid of them.  I’m not going to sell them to friends or family.

I’ll start reading my first journal and when I’m done, I’ll take pictures of it and list it for sale.  I doubt it would sell, but its fun to try.

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Mrs. Nippler

I went to a massage therapy conference two years ago in Massachusetts.  I was one of the last people to sign up, so naturally the best classes were already filled.  I was stuck with ‘Woman’s self-massage.’  I was expecting to learn some useful tips on taking care of my body, I was NOT expecting to find myself in a class surrounded by topless older women rubbing their boobs for three hours.

The chairs were placed in a circle, with one chair up in front for the instructor whom I’ll refer to as Mrs. Nippler.

I was the first to arrive, and Mrs. Nippler greeted me by saying “Please have a seat, take your shoe’s off, make yourself comfortable.  You don’t have to take your top off yet.”

“My top?”

She starts giggling and greet’s more people as they begin to file in.  When the last chair was taken, Mrs. Nippler began the discussion.

“Today I’m going to teach you about the benefit’s of giving breast massage.  I encourage you to even massage your client’s breast’s.”

“You have client’s that request breast massage?”  Someone asks.

“Absolutely I do.  They love it.”

She slowly and deliberately takes off her shirt and start’s massaging herself.  She never wears a bra because they are supposedly bad for you.  And so gravity taken its toll and caused her to have really long narrow boobs that dangled down just above her naval.  I never seen boobs like that in my life, well maybe in National Geographic.  Weasel snout just popped into my head.  Two long snouts sniffing her belly button.

It looked painful when she massaged them, like she was squeezing way too hard.

‘What the fuuuuuuck?’  I stared at her in disbelief.

“Don’t be shy ladies, we’re all girl’s here.”

Everyone takes their shirt off.  And since the chairs were all in a circle, I saw boob’s everywhere I looked.

I was 28 and the youngest person there.  There were some very rotund women who couldn’t wait to take their top’s off.  They did it so swiftly and expertly that I thought they had taken the class before.

I wanted to leave, but I wouldn’t have gotten any CEU’s (continuing education credit).  Mrs. Nippler had to sign something at the end of class to prove that I been there. 

So I stayed and hoped that maybe I’d learn some useful titbits, uh, tidbits.

I was the only one to keep on a shirt.  I was the only one who seemed uncomfortable, actually.  I felt myself up by going under my sweater.  There was NO need to be topless.

Mrs. Nippler asked us to lay down on the floor.  ‘Well this is better’ I thought, ‘at least now I can’t see anyone’s boob.’  Then Mrs. Nippler started walking around, looking down on us as she rubbed herself and said something like;

“I just love seeing a lot of women together massaging themselves, it makes me tingle.”  Now these weren’t her exact words, but whatever she said made me look at her and say to myself; ‘what the fuck she say?’

She wanted us to massage our nipples to make them hard so we can improve those muscle’s.  There was even a booklet with step by step instructions on how to do it.  I kept the booklet because I wanted to show my friends back home.

Finally the break came.  I grabbed all my stuff and head to my car.  I try to start my car up, but it’s dead.  I pop the hood and see all this pus and goo seeping out from the battery.

“Shit.  Shit shit.”

I call my dad and he tell’s me to just wait a few hour’s and try it again.  I was all the way in Massachusetts, so there wasn’t much of a choice.  I go back into the class and sit down.

The class began again.

Mrs. Nippler show’s us her favorite toy.  I forgot the name of it, but it’s a ball that I think is made out of jade.  The ball is attached to a cord and that cord is attached to a weight.  A heavy weight, like ten pounds, maybe more.

“You insert the ball into your vagina and lift the weight up.  You hold it for as long as you can.  I do about five minutes.”

She let’s the class pass this toy around from person to person.  I cringe when it came around to me.  She say’s it’s great for improving your sex life.

That’s about all I remember from the second half of the class.

Boob massage is illegal in CT.  I don’t know the law in other state’s, but I like the law here.

So that’s my boob massage story, hope you enjoyed it.  Oh, and my car started right up after the class, thank god.

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Waitressing, Breaking dishes, customers from hell and taxes

This is from one of my old journals.  An oldie, but a goodie.

October 11, 2004   (waiting table’s at the Yankee Silversmith)

It was super busy tonight.  I was crabby and in the weeds when I got sat a two top – a mother and a daughter who just moved to town.

The mother says to me, “This is a nice area, are you from around here?”

“I’m from cheshire.”

“Where’s that?”  Every question is sinking me deeper into the weeds.  I’m impatient while she’s calm and chipper.

“It’s the next town over.”  The woman kept staring at me so I keep talking, “It’s nice there, too.”  Still the woman stares like bovine. “It has a nice high school.”

“Oh is that where you go?”  [I’m 24 and she’s asking if I’m still in high school]

“No, I graduated.”

“Where do you go now?”  Oh damn it to hell lady.

“I’m in-between school’s right now……It’s complicated.”  My face flushes, I start to sweat.  Again, she kept on staring at me.  “I don’t go to school, sorry.”

“So what do you do?”  Mother-fucker-god-damn-it lady.  I’m trying to fucking wait table’s! 

I start feeling ashamed like I always do when I’m confronted with that question.  The daughter is starring at me now – just like her mother.  She start’s giggling.  Where the hell are these freak’s from?

“I’m a starving artist.”

“Oh really?”  She keep’s her broad smile.  “What kind of art?”

“I’m not a starving artist.  I have no art.  I don’t know why I said that.”  Both Mother and daughter burst out laughing.  It’s like something out of the twilight zone.  Is this really happening?  Oh yes, yes it is.

[This really happened.  I changed the words around a bit to make it blog-friendly, but it’s exactly how it happened word for word.]

“I have to go check on a table.”

The night was so busy that the dishes were flying everywhere, and a few broke.  Mr. Masite would talk about how we have to pay for them out of our check.

“Plate cost a 14 dollar’s, they’re expensive.”

“Well Mr. Masite, what if I gave you $20 for the plate so that way you can put $6 of it towards your yacht fund.”  [I never actually said this to him]

I would have to work one and a half hours to replace one $14 plate if I was making banquet wages.  The very root of my existence in this world for that hour and a half would be to simply buy a new plate.  Working a banquet at the Yankee is like being at the hellmouth (Buffy the vampire slayer term).  Up and down flights of stair’s carrying tray’s stacked to the hilt with dishes, full water pitcher’s, cocktail glasses……etc.  Sweating, and hurting my back at the hellmouth for an hour and a half for a plate I can’t even keep for myself. 

I cringe when I think about how much money they’re making off of one banquet, and how much I’m getting in return compared to how much I give.  Oh how cruel the world can be!

Have you ever thought about how much ten bucks an hour is?  It mean’s that you can work non-stop for 24 hours at the hellmouth and only bring home $240.  If I worked for plates, my labor would equal out to be 17 plates for 24 hours of hard labor.

Maybe that can be a new value system.  Instead of judging people on their house’s and car’s, judge them on how much they’re worth in plates.  “Hi I’m Melanie, and I’m worth 17 plates.”

Let’s say I work a 40 hour work week. That sets me at a value of 28.5 plates, but I have to divide by 7 to get my true value of 4.  I’m only worth 4 plates a day.  Let’s say I break all 28.5 plate’s.  Mr. Masite would want me to pay for them, but this time I have to add in a six-dollar penalty per plate that would go towards his yacht fund.  I now owe him $570.  Thankfully he let me work an extra 17 hours that week to pay off the new debt I owed him.

Mr. Masite now has $170 towards his yacht.  Instead of putting himself thru some hard labor, he want’s me to keep working and “donating” money to his yacht.  Six dollars to every plate I’m worth.  I’m worth 4 plates a day, so I’ll have to give him $24 a day, 42% of my pay. 

If his yacht cost’s one million dollar’s, I would have to work 83 years to pay for his yacht.

However, if I was able to keep the missing 42% of my pay, it would only take me 48 years.

If I keep this ten-dollar an hour job, and the government would stop taking out taxes, I can buy a yacht in 48 years.  Something to think about.

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My old journals

I started journal writing when I was 12 or 13.  Most of it is rehash.  The same jargon written over and over again.  But now and then I come upon a gem.  When I stumble upon these gems, I’ll share them here with you.

December 12, 2004

I went to grand central and then to Calahans.  I felt loved  and adored the whole night.  I stayed until close and got up at 9 am to work a double today.  It was excruciating.  I had to buy a new work shirt at walmart because mine was all dirty and some punk girl in the parking lot shouted out to me, “Nice outfit!”  Out her car window.  I had just worked a banquet and hadn’t taken off my bow tie.  I ran around all day and didn’t seem to get anything done.  I was the last one to leave, so I wiped down the silverware, folded 2 bins of napkins – I did all the stuff that everyone avoided the whole night out of the kindness of my heart.  I was so beat!  I didn’t even have to work tonight but Ralph needed me to.  So now I’m laying in bed on my aching back.

A bunch of people want me to go to New York tomorrow.  I must have been asked 20 times already and Mike called leaving a message to confirm tomorrow even tho I said yes a billion times.  I have to go now.  I have to meet at his house at 8 am.  We’re taking the train so we can walk around in the cold all day.

December 20, 2004

I had a dream last night that I was a wizard and for some reason my fellow wizards deemed me to be the leader and protector of them all.  I was scared and didn’t feel like much of a leader.  When it came time to fight these two evil guys, I knew I had to do something.  Everyone was rooting for me.  I thought that all I had to do was close the doors on them to hold them off, I was terrified.  The doors were piping hot and wouldn’t close all the way.  The bad guys saw me, I turned around and started to run.  And all I could think of was that my leadership only lasted a few hours until I died.  How embarrassing.

But I survived and fought the evil men with these two witches like we were Charlies angels, but one witch died and it was just me and the pretty witch left who got all the men while I just sat there not saying a word.

There were some very good looking guys in my dream.  I was so jealous of the pretty witch, even though I was a more powerful wizard.  But the lack of attention made me want to be even more powerful.

January 5, 2005

(I was working as a waitress at the Yankee Silversmith.  My boss was an 83-year-old perverted Italian man.  This was what I wrote in my old journal):

I worked with Sarah and Chrissy tonight.  I was extraordinarily tired for some reason, but we all were.  Mr. Masite was extra strange and perverted.

Mr. Masite – “I think I’m a goin’ to go home and watch a movie.”

Me – “Oh yeah?  What movie?”

“Well now if the wife’s asleep I’m a goin’ to watch an X rated.”

“Oh!  Well good for you.”

“You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me horny.”

All I could do was stare dumbly at him.  He was smiling big and it completely gave me the creeps.

Me – “Yeah well I’m sure it’s good for you.”

Him – “Yes it is.”

I felt completely weirded out.  I still am.

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