I’ve been off the pole for nearly two weeks.

I’ve eaten a lot of birthday cake, let my leg hair go from prickly to soft and I have every intention of going out tomorrow to buy a pair or seven of Real Girl underwear.

Here’s the thing:

I wake up in the morning and can’t feel my legs. They are so worn out from doing eight-hour wall sits on slacked boners that they seem to have gone on strike. It’s hard to get up off my mom’s couch in the morning. My feet aren’t happy, either. The calluses that formed on the balls of my feet are now softening and it’s causing all sorts of I-hate-you feelings within the depths of my depleted soul.

My alcoholic, drug-addicted friend told me yesterday, “Are you okay, baby? You look like shit.”

The mustachioed, West Village basement palm reader told me: “You are stressed, tired and depleted. You need to restore your sole. I see travel in your immediate future. It will be twenty five dollars if you wish for me to continue.”

So I’m fucking off to New Mexico to wear this and only this for several weeks:

www.thesapphicstripper.com