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I grew up in college towns in the Midwest and went to high school in Virginia.
I got a degree in English from the University of Maryland.
I moved to the Bay Area in 1994 to go to graduate school. Grandma said she'd help me out,
but in her senility mistook the seven thousand per year that I needed for tuition for seven hundred per
year, which she gladly gave me. So I paid my way through grad school working at
San Francisco's Lusty Lady Theater. I worked as a stripper in various clubs until last year,
when I got a job in web production. I now make less than half the money working more than twice the
hours, but hey, it's morally reasonable work. Unless you consider that I'm furthering
the cause of capitalism. Best not to think about it. At least web production doesn't kill my knees.
I'm also writing more books, so watch for them!
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Here I am as "Eden." I know, and they hired me! Can you tell I hadn't worn
eyeshadow since 1986? Must have been the tits.
Here I am as normal me.
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Here I am in youth. For those of you looking for a psychological explanation for why
I grew up to become a stripper, look no further than the photo on the left. Grandma
loved dressing me up in folk, or should I say volk, costumes. As you can see, I hated that shit. Since then
I've shown a strong aversion to other people telling me what to wear. So when the
lackey at the temp agency said: you really need to get some hose, honey, to be a receptionist,
I knew that the right job for me was one that didn't require clothing.
This is the last picture of Mom, Dad, and kid before the divorce.
Don't we look miserable? We did all seem to agree on one thing: the awesomeness of the Beatle cut.
Don't worry though, this was my one childhood trauma. Even though I turned out to be a stripper I was never
sexually abused! Can you believe it? In fact, I found that most strippers I came to know
did not have abuse in their history! I heard tale after tale from these depraved women of backgrounds tainted by the everyday horrors of middle-class suburbia:
compulsory schooling, concerned parents, carpools, a fridge in the rec room. Obviously these psychological triggers are
more traumatic than we knew.
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Dad is actually pretty mild-mannered, and Mom knew
better than to let me hang out with my uncles too much. So you can't really blame them
for how I turned out. That's me and Dad in recent times, playing with my cousin Dale's pitbulls.
Here's the family not-of-origin: Pablo and Cadfael. Guess which is which? A hint:
Cadfael sat on my lap while I was writing the book, and Pablo didn't.
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