Milestones

After I left the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, which was after I had run away to live with some Seventh Day Adventists, God decided that I should embrace the Christadelphians and subscribe to Milestones Magazine.  That decision sat nicely with my uppity parents, who always wanted me to follow Joel Osteen's path into a life of wealth, fame and a life on air.  While those goals have yet to coalesce, I do now have a primary porpoise in life:  Not unlike the bleach blonde pseudo black uppity Katie Roiphe, I was born to be a streetwalker, to walk the streets, listening to catcalls and whistles and business propositions.  No matter where I go or whatever else I do in life, my life shall be spent hell-bent working ev'ry stag party, strip club, street-corner, needle-littered back-alley, and seedy smoke-filled bar, fulfilling God's destiny that I honor my duty to the person within: the authentic pole-dancing person inside me and underneath all my drippy-from-sweat Goth makeup, bleeding piercings, and shiny new tattoos, still raised above my skin like scars from Satan's other worker-bees.  And so I walk the streets wherever I happen to live and whatever my nominal occupation might be.  I could even be a Keystone [state] Cop, stripping down to my super-tight fishnet stockings at the whim of Wim Wenders, or flying over flyover country on a toilet seat six sizes too small, or perhaps bend down pantyless deep inside an ancient cave dimly lit for Werner Herzog by a phosphorescent stalagmite, where such sexually charged rituals were once commonplace among locals and sheep.  My kind has been around forever (not just the Upper East Side), and with God's explicit X-rated NC-17 unrated approval.  Having had almost enough of the coy but playful delphinian oracles of the Sea Org, perhaps I shall next subscribe to Guideposts, to show me where my next journeys might lay.