#thechroniclesofahotgirl

[thechroniclesofahotgirl]

New Moon New Me

New Moon New ME.

Welcome back to the third installment of The Chronicles of a Hot Girl.

I started the week as I always did. I woke up. I had some existential dread. I went to bed.

After firing pretty much everyone involved with my show I took a little time off to center and refocus.

I took only Monday and Tuesday to blow off a little steam and catch up on sleep. By Wednesday we were back at it again (no white vans though.)

With an appointment with my Psychiatrist on the books (which did me no good at all as Adderall is on backorder basically everywhere) I made my way to the bank to deposit some cash.

While I was there I figured now is as good a time as any to set up the bank account for my LLC. I even changed my car insurance to a way cheaper brand so I could save a little money.

With my finances in order I headed back home to prepare for my Telehealth appointment.

Now this wouldn’t be a hot girl chronicle if there were not some hot girl shenanigans. SO OFC the new psychiatrist was someone on Bumble maybe I would have passed on. However, here at the telehealth appointment, I felt myself get nervous as I talked about my self pleasuring habits. (yes even hot girls masturbate)

Normally this part of the conversation didn’t bother me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if my comments got him a little curious too.

He didn’t matter much though because doctors can’t sleep with their patients. Wa wha.

In my state of motivation, I did get online to begin my search for a new band.

An overall uneventful start to the week.

With Thursday bringing us into a new moon, something in the air must have shifted.

On Thursday at a book store by the university with my boss, I got a phone call that ushered in a new phase for a former employer of mine.

A potential class action for sexual harassment.

I guess I had all the right experiences for the EEOC to take action not only on behalf of the girl who made the original complaint but for a whole class of people who worked for the same people.

More on that later.

Later that night I joined up with the same friend as the week before to hit the country bar on the outskirts of town for a little line dancing.

We really did have a great time. The dancing and the music were great, but there wasn’t much here in the way of Hot Girls getting their Hot Girl on.

It was hard to believe that environments like that were where I used to find mates of sorts.

Friday the 19th was the new moon in Taurus. A time to let the universe know that I was ready to take on all it had to offer me.

You want to know what this mother fucker sent me?

Well, I had gathered a couple friends of mine to come to help me get content for a 7th Ave bar. The theme was Pirates. Here in this Shmity TM* (a city that behaves like a small town) we fucking love pirates.

It was at the Pirate Bar on 7th Ave that I had the strangest experience.

In a skin-tight black halter dress and black babydoll strap peep toes, I made a full strut to the stage to sing a little diddly called “Hell on Heels” which I not only thought was fitting, but also that I killlllled.

From the stage, I scanned the crowd for the most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes.

Mostly unimpressed, I sang my song, gave my thanks, and made my way back to the table. We had chosen a high-top table in the back that we shared with a few other unrelated groups of people.

Sitting at the end of the table, I became all too aware of a very drunk man staring at me.

He was about 6 feet away at the table in front of ours. He stood at no more than five foot five maybe. A round man in Jesus sandals and a floral button-up. The lights weren’t really on behind his glossy bloodshot eyes.

How did I know what his eyes look like you ask?

Well, that is because that strange and drunk little man stepped out of his sandals and stumbled over to my table. He took a seat as if my acknowledgment of his staring was an invitation.

In an attempt to alert his friend group to their missing passenger, I unwittingly invited a second man to our table.

The second man also grabbed a chair and took a seat between me and 7th Ave Jesus.

“What made you want to call me over?” He asked

His breath probably could have started a small fire in the right conditions.

He was tall and had to be at least six foot five inches, he had a ridiculous mustache, floral shirt, sneakers, and blue eyes.

His eyes though less bloodshot and glossy, were still inebriated.

“Well, I called you over to remove your friend. His shoes by the way are over at your table.” I retorted as I pointed out not only his barefoot friend but also where he had stepped out of his well-worn sandals.

The taller bachelor reached over to grab the nasty sandals and handed them to his significantly more intoxicated friend.

I ignored the little one as he continued his drunken staring.

I really couldn’t blame him. Hot Girl is as Hot Girl does.

The taller man whose name was something perfectly normal, continued on with his conversation overlooking my comment which I thought would be the end of our exchange.

“I see, like your friend, you have taken my call for aid as an invitation.”

Blah blah blah

We talk a bit about what books we are reading and make a few recommendations. I warm up to him and realize he is objectively attractive. His floral Hawaiian shirt had the top few buttons undone and I could see a bit of his chest.

He asked where we were headed next.

After some light coordination, my friend and I took him and his friend on an adventure leaving the rest of the bachelor party they were with behind.

They were here from Canada for a bachelor party, so I wanted to give them a night they could take with them forever.

We started at the new wine and cheese bar where we were almost denied entry due to the friend in his Crocs.

(Why men go out without considering dressing well is beyond me)

Luckily the owner of the bar was a friend who owned another establishment a few door fronts down who happened to be walking in at the same time. He gave us the go-ahead against the dress code of the new establishment.

It was cool but loud.

The Canadian and I chatted. He told me about how he worked in medical sales back in Toronto and played hockey in his free time. He asked me questions about what made me who I was. It was all very polite.

Over a couple glasses of champagne and some very loud music we got to know each other. He had his arm around my waist and my free hand rested on his muscular shoulder.

Attempting to find an environment more conducive to talking, I lead the foursome down to the bar I worked at.

Here is where it gets interesting.

Some many shots and a few drinks later we the Canadian and I had started making out. It was 1 am at this point and I was feeling great.

Maybe a little too good because somehow, mid make out sesh, we completely lost our footing and fell over taking a few chairs down with us as we went.

A quick jump up from the ground though was not enough to cover up what we had done. Or the little bit of blood coming from a small gash on the bridge of his nose.

My favorite part was in the security camera footage, which I had coxed out of my manager the following morning, which was my coworker shaking his head at the whole scene.

Deciding that I had enough embarrassment for one establishment, we made our way on to the next place.

A nightclub, one of the oldest on the 7th, also had a dress code. (Those fucking Crocs again)

I looked one of the security guards dead in the face and said “Help a girl get laid.”

Maybe it was my heartfelt plea or maybe it was because I used to work there, but either way, they let us in. With my credit card whose balance I’m still scared to look at as I type this, I bought another round of shots as we waited for the elevator.

My efforts were for not though as we eventually trekked the 5 flights of stairs up to the rooftop. The only level out of 5 that I was willing to tolerate.

Already plenty lit we had even more shots and made out in the front corner looking at the strip of bars and clubs.

I was thankful for the fresh air and the breeze. Things got a little steamy on that rooftop.

The Canadian was stroking my side from my breast to my hip which was only made sexier by my lack of bra.

His big hands made my whole body feel petite and tingly as he grabbed me to pull me in closer while we locked lips and teased each other’s tongues.

Ready for more alcohol though I lead us back to the bar where I briefly checked my phone.

There were 3 unread messages from B. 1:11 am.

I slipped my phone back into my small pink vintage coach purse. (Vintage because I had it since 6th grade.) I opted for the man who spent the better part of the night buying me flowers from the strange man who pedals them and asked me everything there was to know about how my mind worked.

He was trying to get laid, but I sensed a level of severity in his interest that eased my guard just enough to tell him little things about myself that I doubt he remembers now. Mostly about therapy and why we were in it.

The bars and nightclubs around the strip had started to close up so we made our way out the street with no plan of where to go next.

Popping into one last establishment for an after-hours shot before reconnecting with our respective friends.

I found mine a few paces ahead of us. When I met up with her she had given me the impression she was ready for the night to be over.

So together we made a break for my boss’ condo a few blocks over leaving the boys in the dust.

I woke up Saturday morning on my boss’ couch with the kind of hangover that you know hasn’t fully set in yet.

Upon my return to my dwelling, I immediately showered, got back in bed, and reviewed the footage from the night before.

I finally opened B’s messages and replied at first with a simple “sry I was out, just got home.”

I wish I would have left it there, but as I do, I did not.

I went on to address something passive-aggressive he had said about a playlist I had made for him a while back.

He was upset I changed the name of the playlist and accused me of trying to guilt trip him.

I wasn’t. I just changed it from “playlist 50” made by me to the name of the first song I showed him that he got excited for.

Music was one of those things B and I shared that felt special to me. After consideration, it probably wasn’t ever special to him, but I didn’t let that affect me.

I didn’t have time to dwell on his emotional triggers though as I was now down to two hours until I had to leave my house and brave an entire brunch shift fighting the urge to regurgitate every shot and sip of champagne I had the night before.

I did exactly that too. I made it through the whole shift curating a telling of the events of the night before to each table or group that sat at the bar.

The Canadian really had his heart set on seeing me for a second night and even called me a couple times throughout the night. I, however, was already fast asleep in bed still wearing my falsies from the brunch shift I had just worked.

The Canadian tried Sunday morning, and then Sunday night, even into the wee hours of Monday morning to see me one more time.

I think you all know me just enough by now to know that I am a full send no-more than once a week kinda gal. If I even have the energy for that much.

Another victim of the Hot Girl comes and goes as a does a week.

Maybe soon I’ll take it another step forward with someone. Maybe I’ll even go on a proper date. Honestly, though, I am not looking for it. I’d rather have a date with the videographer to set up my show’s next steps.

Until the next cosmic shift, this has been an update in The Chronicles of a Hot Girl.

[thechroniclesofahotgirl]

The Chronicles of a Hot Girl pt 1. Mercury is in the microwave.

It was an unseasonably hot April night. Mercury was about to be in the microwave, and I was on one.

See, I had been on and off with the same emotionally unavailable person since mid-2021. He was initially just the rebound.

The trouble is I was really going through it in 2021. To the credit of this situationship, we had really great sex, and I know that the way he hurts people isn't intentional. The problem is the way he hurts people is addictive to someone like me.

These chronicles, though, are not about him and me. These here chronicles begin with a Friday night. It was a revenge dress, hold a roster draft, not give a fuck kinda Friday night in Ybor City.

"As it should be."

A few friends of mine got together to see where the night might take us. So through the back gate of the karaoke bar, we slipped in. I signed up for Fall Out Boy's 'Sugar We're going down." We all know I killed it because I am also a very talented girl in addition to being a Hot Girl.

It was like I blinked, and then somehow, the group had made it to the patio of the karaoke bar where the owner was sitting atop the bar, and the bartender was shirtless, pouring a mystery blue liquor down our throats.

With that, I made haste to return to the sanctuary that was my Boss's condo a few blocks over. On the way back, my girlfriend and I popped into an Irish Pub for a little break and a pee.

It was there that the beginning of our roster for this illustrious Hot Girl Summer took down its first name.

We will call him Young Short Orlando Bloom for the sake of this here practice. He had his dark curly hair in a half-up half-down man bun that looked like what the guy who cheated on me in 2021 thought his hair looked like. His shirt was a little oversized, the same way the costumes in the Pirates of the Caribbean did, but it looked more like a sweater.

He and I made eye contact a few times before he approached my friend and me. We took shots, and I got his number. We texted a few times, but mostly just on the weekend. Our paths have yet to cross again.

I had been working all day the following night and just wanted to blow off some steam. I made the mistake of messaging B again, having yet to learn my lesson from 2 nights before, 4 months before, or in the year and a half before that.

For the first time, he was adamantly not interested in seeing me that night.

"Smash cut."

His call rolled around at 3 am as the witching hour does. He only had 3 % battery and would be waiting for me outside the bar I worked at.

Not quite ready to let go, I acquiesced. Got out of bed, put on a cute crop top, and drove the 11 minutes through the vacant streets. When I found him, he was right where he said he would be. I tried not to literally run to him. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but how he scooped me up in his arms felt like he missed me too.

When we returned to his house (the one I have the code to get into, but whatever, I guess), I couldn't help but snuggle on his chest, half awake. I could feel him staring a hole into my face while fighting, and losing, the urge to put popcorn in my nose and ears.

We went to sleep like nothing wrong had ever happened between us.

I woke up the following day like we always did. The sunlight beamed through the windows around the room, illuminating a mess of clothes achieved only by someone experiencing burnout or depression. (I say this from personal experience.) But from the bed, I couldn't really see it. One of his kittens would join us to let us know the day was ready to begin. We cuddled some more. Had sex. Then I went home. That was the last time I talked to him. He is blocked again for now.

While I was there, though, there was one different thing. I woke up to a message from an unknown number. It was a gentleman caller who wanted to make me a passenger princess. In B's bed, though, I replied

"Those are some magical words you're putting together."

This brings us to our next name claimed by an already quickly fleeting roster. We can call him the Really Respectful Driver. When I had dubbed him as such, I didn't realize the irony of the name. He decided last minute before our pizza and sunset date on the beach (I am not kidding, 100% his idea) that he was too tired.

I forgave him but made plans with another guy friend because I'll be damned if I planned on getting dressed and was now wasting a perfectly cute outfit.

The really respectful driver had messaged me something about liking mystery, and I remember saying to my friend.

"Yes, the mystery of if I'll give you another shot after this."

Anyway, as I sat at a bar overlooking downtown and the river, I sipped Carmel Espresso Martinis with a guy friend of mine. We had worked together back in 2020 at the same bar in the combination college and million-dollar mansion area of town. He was cute but had made out with a friend of mine. Also, he is about 4 years younger than me, and it feels weird to think of him as anything other than a friend.

At that bar, though, while simultaneously wreaking havoc on a group of guys giving their friend a hard time for ordering a bud light (you know, because Bud Light had a partnership with a young up-and-coming internet personality known for her journey in the Trans community) I managed to catch the eye of a pretty blonde bartender who had accidentally cut her hand open on broken glass.

I wasn't sure then, but I figured she was probably gay and tried to shoot my shot. You, as the reader, need to understand that I am out of the closet to almost everyone but my family. I also haven't had nearly as much experience in that bracket either. All this to say that with women, It could be a 50/50 shot on how smoothly the words might come out of my mouth. Or better yet, my favorite move, run away after you ask them out without getting any of their contact information. 

I walked out of that bar with my friend that night, wondering if I had given her the same vaguely interested vibe she had given me.

A little phone notification was all it took to confirm that suspicion. The really pretty bartender found my Instagram account after I had posted the martinis my friend and I had gotten and tagged the bar. She led with something cute about liking girls to toast marshmallows. She nailed it, honestly.

So another name goes down on the roster.

That brought us to yet another weekend. A time when the city I love comes to life, and I take refuge in the karaoke scene.

This second weekend. Well, Mercury was defiantly in the fucking microwave. HOLY SHIT. Mercury retrograde is marked by a period in our lives where communication breaks down, technology takes a crap, and unresolved issues rise to the surface.

Being a Hot Girl comes with its own… special issues. I remember the first time I was pinned to a doorway in a back building during my freshman year of high school. I was 14, and a pattern was blossoming. Each year I grew more into my body and personality and seemed to attract a vile kind of human. One that would pin me down, drag around my limp and unconscious body, and quite literally have their way with me.

I am 26 now, and my most recent experience with this (depending on your feelings about coercion and how it applies to consent) was a year ago, almost to the day as I wrote these words here.

A man who works security at a bar I used to work at decided on a random April 27th, in the middle of the military bar, to grab my face from behind, forcing his gross non-consensual tongue down my throat. I looked to the friend I was out with for support, something to let me know that what had happened had actually happened. That my disgust and feelings of violation were valid.

Well, he happened to have his back turned, and with that information, I went crying to the patio of that bar. The bartenders of this particular establishment were no stagers to my ability to emote in public. They asked me if there was anything they could do, but knowing how my experiences in the past with reporting this sort of thing, I opted to drink the memory of him inside my mouth away as quickly as I could.

Looking back, I wish I had asked the manager for the security tape. They had since changed their camera systems and could no longer access that time.

If I have lost you a bit in this flashback, allow me to bring you back to real-time.

I spent the better part of the last year avoiding this person. I would cross the street to avoid walking where he could reach me from his post in front of the karaoke bar. So when I started visiting the karaoke bar again in early March, I asked one of the managers to just let me in through the back or walk in through the front with me, so I wouldn't have to interact with him.

That worked for about a month and a half. You see, the bar manager at this point also happened to be this person's girlfriend. After a hand full of visits, including the most recent one with the owner, the girlfriend was dying to ask me what the deal was. So she took her opportunity on this second Saturday of Mercury in the microwave.

I had been asked out onto the patio of this karaoke bar before. It felt like revisiting an old crime scene, a betrayal that this story need not concern itself.

I knew she was bringing me back to ask about the situation. I had decided a few nights before that I'd tell her the truth if she asked. My reputation had already been dragged through the mud once before, and I knew the truth no matter how she might take it.

After giving her my full recount of the details, she informed me that she would "do some digging of her own."

I returned to the main bar to grab my friend as I felt a panic attack swelling. I knew I had maybe 30 seconds before the air in my lungs would give, and my tear duct damns broke.

The wild thing about my specific brand of trauma is that, at the moment, I'm riding the adrenaline. As soon as that moment is over, I crumple up like a piece of paper and hyperventilate.

Between two dumpsters, my legs gave out, and I had a kind of panic attack that makes you nonverbal. I was trying to explain what happened to my friend in between sobs and gasps for air.

After some time, we walked to my car so I could clean myself up and explain my predicament to my friend. Once I had fixed my mascara and the foundation around my eyes, we made our way back to the bar where the rest of our friends had been waiting.

When we walked up, we were greeted by the same ugly Lorax-looking mother fucker telling us I was banned.

Funny.

So my friend went in and gathered up our group. We made a break for the only other bar that did karaoke on Saturday nights.

Where I had 2 more panic attacks.

The anger I felt put my whole body on pins and needles. Suddenly I was 14 again.

"We're sorry, but there were no cameras on that door in that hallway."

"No, a threatening voicemail is not enough proof."

14 years old, learning about the burden of proof because the burden is on the victim.

My only proof was the visceral reaction to being asked to recount that moment, and a screenshot of me telling my friend about the experience I had April 27th.

My whole friend group tried hard the rest of that night to get us "back on track with a great night."

I did too. I sang one of my favorite songs to sing. I tried drinking a beer. I tried talking to people about my big show on the horizon.

It was too late. The emotional hangover of 3 panic attacks in public was setting in, and I just wanted to stare at a wall in my enclosure.

The bar owner there visited me the next day at my job to get my side of things. She admitted that she had fired this particular employee once for being creepy. Too bad it hadn't stuck. It might have saved me a couple panic attacks.

Unresolved issues were coming to the surface. A staple of Mercury in retrograde.

As a Hot Girl trying to live her Hot Girl Life, I would have preferred an ex texting me at 3 am, but I guess I wouldn't have grown or learned from that.

That night I asked Mr. Respectful Driver if he was still open to going out again. He said he was. We made plans.

This brings us to now. Mr. Respectful Driver has, in fact, stood me up. Wasting yet another super cute outfit. Well, maybe not because I am going to another karaoke night. I'm new in a different part of town to sell tickets for my show.

He is not getting another chance. Another bites the dust.

Until next time, this has been week 1 in The Chronicles of a Hot Girl.

[thechroniclesofahotgirl]

Someone Get Freddy Out of the Microwave

Chronicles of a Hot Girl week 3

Mercury remained in the microwave for another couple of weeks.

With a full moon, a lunar eclipse and cinco de mayo, this Hot Girly opted for a weekend of rest. 

“As she should.”

By week three of microwaving Mercury (band name idea) I was depleted, defeated, and regularly depressed. 

The show was a heated mess and I was starting to spin out. 

Being a Hot Girl is truly a state of mind. It is not about how many dates you go on. It's not even conventional attractiveness. It is one hundred percent about being That Bitch. 

Taking life by stride, the ability to self sooth, identify and communicate your needs. A Hot Girly utilizes healthy coping mechanisms and works through their emotions. These are the hall marks of a Hot Girl. 

Sometimes though, in life we are the ex that comes back during a retrograde. 

I should be embrassed how quickly I answered after B messaged me. I had spent the last 3 days debating whether or not to message him. 

How you ask?

Typing up messages in snapchat and then copy and pasting them into the notes app on my phone. 

After the third day he had enough of being notified that I was typing only to not see the message. 

“I know you didn’t care that’s why I don’t ever actually send these messages.”

Maybe it is the anxiety. Maybe it is the delusion? Perhaps it is the unintentional gaslighting. If we are being honest, on both of our parts.  

Either way. He asked what was up. I called him, he called me, I messaged him, he messaged me. Then it was 3 am and I was wrapped up in his arms on the couch singing with him like our own depressing little karaoke night. It was something we were good at. 

We are on borrowed time for sure. I want there to be a way to fix that.

It didn't hit until I was in his bathroom at 5 am and noticed all the extra and new products lined up neatly on the rack in the shower and the pile of scrunchies on the bathroom sink. 

“When do you think you’ll make it official?” I asked him while he laid out naked and drained of life. 

“Probably soon.”

I calmly got up, grabbed my shorts, and made my way down the hall. 

It's a fucking miracle I can make my way around in the dark without breaking anything. 

As I get in the car I cry. The moment I had been holding my breath for since we picked up again in January is close. I thought I would be used to it 9th time around. 

B messaged me the next morning. I guess waking up without me there was jarring.

Let us just chalk this up to what not one but 2 psychologists deem as a form of self harm. If I say that out loud enough times it could possibly, maybe, hopefully sink in. 

So, how do we learn to take life by stride? 

 I always think back to when I first started learning how to compete in pageants. You really think you know how to walk until you’re about to walk across a stage in 4-6in heels for the purposes of being judged. Like actually judged for your grace in walking across a stage. 

My mother had used to get on to me for dragging my feet, so I was under the impression I had nailed that already. Or at least enough to keep her claws out of my arm. 

Alas, though simialry to an ugly ducking blossoms into a swan as did I. 

I forget the power a great walk can have. The affect grace and poster can have on how an entire room sees you. 

After a long week, I was having one of my trademark anxiety attacks. Everything fit wrong. I felt like the air wasn't working like it should. I categorize anxeity attacks a little differently from my panic attacks as the effects are all internal and somewhat scaled down. 

One of my friends was sitting on my bed as I told the 3rd person today what had transpired the night before and carefully (like a feral raccoon digging for a lil snaky snack) chose the perfect bright lacey corset top to juxtapose my light wash shredded shorts. 

The reaction varies from person to person. One says the relationship sounds like self harm. My boss thinks I should just be honest about my feelings. The last is honestly just living for the plot. 

We get to the *gasp* country bar, and from the moment I open the swinging door I can feel every head snap in my direction. Maybe that is because I did open the door a little aggressively and pop the trash can on the other side of it by accdient. The little swinging door looked heavier than it was. 

I cut through that place like butter. As I glide up to the bar, I can still feel eyes on me. 

The only two people I am there with are the only two I know. A perfect environment to dance and have a carefree time. Homeostasis achieved.  

For whatever reason though, it never seems the stars alligin in such a way that for me to spend too much time there. 

Not long after arriving to the country bar, I am back in my enclosure. The lavender and clary sage candle helped my little sunset light illuminate my room.

There is a lot I would love to be able to say to B. 

I spent a long weekend just trying to survive the annual hallmark reminder of my childhood trauma. I did my best to sEt MySeLf Up FoR sUcCeSs. I went to work, didn’t drink, even tried to water and feed myself. 

“I woke up for the first time in 6 months in a good mood for once.” Played on an ADHD loop for the better part of my Sunday morning. I went for a mile and a half walk which was short for me. I wanted to leave enough time to get ready for work, get my coffee and so on. I also had an 8 hour shift ahead of me. 

Getting to work with enough time to smoke it out with my coworker. She tries to be nice, but I know she doesn’t like me much. The shift is peaceful. Slow in my line of work isn’t the best financially speaking, but it is a lot easier to not have a mental breakdown if your job isn't activly giving you a reason to drink. 

The bartending industry by no means is making anyone do anything they don’t want to do. Now if you haven’t had the privilege of working behind the pine, it is likely you also don’t know the pleasure of taking a warm shot of lemon vodka after someone brings up your suicide attempt from 2020. (I know. Who didn’t have one that year?) 

So for me to not partake in the roaring twenties that is working on 7th ave because my mental state isn’t great is really monumental for me. I might have slipped when Andor came in for a hug, but I didn’t sleep with him, so that doesn’t count. 

Sunday night was also the night I let everyone involved in the show know that my child (my burlesque show) would be temporarily suspended. I felt like I had fired people which is so odd because literally nothing got done outside of me. 

Still it felt shitty. I wasn’t even mad. Just disappointed. 

The show must go on. On it will go. The show will live in August complete with a new band, new location, and new ideas to make the approprate show to kick off a production company. 

Someone took Freddy Mercury out of the microwave on the 15th which was a Monday. 

I woke up with $50 in my bank account, no show, no fun traumatizing situation-ship, and generally no idea how I was going to make the next few months work. If there is anything you should know about me, is I am a figure it out along the way kinda girly. 

No confidence? Fake it and if all fails just be kind. No money? Money jars and grab a shift or a gig. No love? Ha. Boys (girls) and Buses, baby. 

Until next time.