I was an art model since I was 25 until last year when I moved back home. Not so much the nudity, but the flexibility of the hours and the cash on hand.

I also was a drag king for a couple of years. I went by the name of Rudy, and I wore a huge afro, which can no longer fit me now.

Those 2 jobs had me on-call, and I felt like I had more controll over them. It wasn't 9-5, and it wasn't that predictable, so that's what I loved about it. Being beckoned, having the phone ring and hearing somebody on the other line want my presence to put smiles on people's faces was a joy on most mornings.

The other things I liked to do was audition and perform background extra work, which were also unpredictably scheduled. Those jobs were open-ended, and could've led me anywhere, not like the dreary entry-level wage-earning jobs I took to pay rent and survive. I wasn't good at putting enough effort into those kinds of jobs. If your heart isn't in it, then you can't do your job thoroughly, like I did. The only part-time job I did put some muscle into was bussing tables at "The Olive Garden", a long time ago. It took me awhile, but I had it down to an art form after a few months. There were rumors that I was stealing tips from the tables, but because I knew I wasn't doing that, I didn't pay too much attention to it, thinking that once they were aware of my devotion to my job, they'd realise how ridiculous they were and respect me.

Those bastards kept up the rumors, no matter what. I mean, it's a job I had a long time ago, one I could now care less about, but the fact that I did my job and they didn't care was what bothered me. It didn't matter that I wasn't stealing, it didn't matter that I would ask for my tips or would put theirs in an envelope for them to get later: I was the last person at their table, so therefore I was suspected of stealing; I was a lowly busser, and my rank amoungst the employees was at the very bottom, so I didn't matter. I can't believe I'm being petty about such a thing a decade later. Those bastards probably don't even remember me at all, and wouldn't if they saw me on the street after approaching them to recall our association.

Sometimes I dwell on the negative, trying to squeeze it out of me so I can be happy, only I'm really picking at my emotional scab and making it worse. Someday, I'll look back on my life, all the things I've done or wished I'd done, all the good and bad things, the people I've met, and it'll all seem like a novel that took me a long time to read.