is a kitty-litter box. People
dumping their **** on me. Asking me to
write their name all over my **** body. For
a price I’ll do anything. Custom-made

seems to be the thing. They don’t want
to do my lines. I don’t get them high. Everyone
else is on vacation. I’m 24/7 with frustration. I slip
on my anguish like a banana peel. I get bunions

from wearing high heels. Not to mention I feel
like a ****. It’s not the kind of vocation you can
tell your in-laws of. I never see them anyway –
only once on Christmas day.