The where in we are here. (Summer Journals)

I don't know where anything is. I don't know where any of us are. I just got here. Sioux Falls Nites Inn, there are other dancers staying here. I saw one, don't know her name, but I worked with her last night, the girl with blue braids and the best floor moves. She was disappearing into her room with a bag of popcorn she must of just popped in the lobby. I don't know where any of us are.

They say this is hunting season and it's a big money season, but I've only made a hundred dollars in the last two days. That's shit. Taking your clothes off for anything less than two-hundred a night is degrading, unless it's sex- and this isn't. Go away sex-negatives, sex-radicals, I just want to be left alone in my motel room to shave my pussy with these cheap dollar store razors. They hurt like hell, but it sure beats squatting over a sink in the Minnesota Rest Stop, above the Mississippi. I didn't know until I saw the sign and double-checked my Atlas, that yes, the Mississippi runs all the way up here, between Minnesota and Wisconsin. I don't know where any of us are. The moon was full, as somebody I saw in the bathroom said it would be. I don't remember her name, although I remember liking it that she was pretty and knew the moon so well. I don't know who any of us are. You never know when a stranger waiting in the shower line at the Flying J is going to be an astrologer, gonna tell you Mercury just went out of retrograde, so relax, things will get better.

Better. One hundred dollars minus the room equals something small left for breakfast. One can of bean soup left. My boyfriend says let's start driving home, luck will guide us to a good gas station to spange. He says we can make it. I say we overdraw the whole way and ride right through the tolls, tell them we will pay later.