Remember Egon Schiele, and go back to Sunset Strip.
Being at work makes me unhappy. Following my secret desires is marginally better. I can't escape this basic equation, and the solution seems unavoidable.
"La Belle Epoque became a celebration of women's sexuality and beauty, in turn-of-the-century Paris. That acrobatic frenzy of limbs called the Can Can was born, where dancers high-kicked in frilly petticoats flashing glimpses of white flesh between bloomers and stocking tops. Girls drudging as laundresses ten hours a day for peanuts could suddenly have more money and fun by dancing. Star dancers such as the brazen Paris sex symbol La Goulue (the Glutton) emerged--she was the first nude cover girl and became rich and famous. Meanwhile: 'The sinuous moving of a voluptuous body, the open sexuality of an uncorseted woman and the exotic attraction of the mysterious eroticism of the North African coast made the arrival of belly dance a catalyst for the birth of striptease.'"
Go to Sunset Strip often (but briefly): three pints inside me will make even one hour bearable, even if the Glutton isn't there. But I have to keep checking. Fine. Weekly visits to see blonde bob Glutton, like I had weekly visits to see black bob. If I could afford it then, I can afford it now.
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