I almost didn’t write this story. The day before Christmas break, one of my co-workers told me that she was drunk-texting her ex the evening prior, and the next thing she knew, he was making plans to whisk her off to Breckenridge, CO for Christmas. They made love in a hot tub as a blizzard howled outside.

GODDAMMIT. I never drunk text anyone! Perhaps I should reconsider all of my excellent life choices and engage in some dumb ideas instead.

So, yeah, my story is not miraculous like THAT. Nevertheless, when Hallmark or Lifetime makes a movie about my life, today’s story will feature prominently towards the dramatic climax.

HAHAHAHA. I’m kidding. We all know that’s never gonna happen. No one’s making a movie about my life unless it’s Wes Craven, it’s been such a shitshow.

What happened on Friday night was pretty great, though. Not monetarily of course. The club has been in such decline that I really haven’t been making good money. No, this is one of those stories Hollywood loves to make about how love is so much better than money and then goes off to make gobs of money and marry trophy wives, as if their own goddamn movies taught them nothing.

Heartwarming movies with wholesome messages about love > money are only for the poors, apparently. Maybe it’s a conspiracy to tamp down our ambitions so they can hog more money for themselves. Maybe they just want us to feel better about being poors as they take our money. Anyway, I digress . . .

I was standing at the front desk clocking in when I heard my first and only original single ring out over the speakers. (You may remember that song from my last post.) I immediately proceeded to freak out the front desk girl and then rushed into the deejay booth to hug DJ Rob, who laughed with sheer joy and immediately proceeded to grab my butt.

Rob had added some rap lyrics from a local rapper named Chiclopz and mastered it. My voice streamed through the speakers like silk. Onstage, a dancer twirled gracefully around the pole LIKE IT WAS A REAL SONG OH MY GOD.

Another dancer bounced into the booth, singing my lyrics back to me. She lives with DJ Rob, who is always taking in stray dancers, and had heard my lyrics a million times, bless her heart.

(Still, it’s an amazing feeling to hear someone sing your own lyrics back to you.)

I apologized profusely. “No, no, no, it’s okay!” she exclaimed. “I love this song so much!

Then she bought me a drink and told me that her boyfriend had recently landed in prison. She drove eight hours round-trip once a week to see him. A few months in, he called her to ask her to make a special trip, only to break up with her when she arrived. She cried all the way back home.

DAMN. Who makes a girl drive eight hours just so he can dump her? I mean, if there’s ever a justifiable reason to break up over text, being in jail four hours away would definitely be the right situation for that.

“Your song helped me so much,” she said in that super cute earnest way that only 20somethings can pull off. “I listened to it over and over because I needed to hear it. I knew you had gone through something similar and you understood how I felt. Please keep doing what you’re doing because you’re a real person, and you can help a lot of people.”

Say it with me: AWWWWWWW. I’m sure every singer/songwriter who’s written anything even remotely inspirational has heard those exact same words, but it’s a pretty damn good feeling to hear them said TO YOUR OWN STUPID FACE.

This night at the club was starting to feel more like being at home for Christmas with my family than the real thing. My real family is kind but also super unimpressed with me.

You kind of don’t expect this sort of thing to happen at a strip club. I mean, let me be real: Strip clubs are the IHOPs of the entertainment world. You only come to us when all your better options are unavailable. You don’t expect to find something special like love or family at such a wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Just as I was still glowing from DJ Rob’s surprise, my girl Genevieve texted me.

To be continued . . .