Down in The Dumps

I need to stop reading the tabloids and disconnect the internet, because l’affaire Spitzer is making me depressed.  Really, really depressed.

Even the more measured pieces are followed by comments that are unbelievably disheartening to me.  After more than two years, it still hurts that, to so many people, we’re nothing but scum who deserve Old Testament-style punishment.  Why do they hate us so much?  I really think these are the same people who bomb abortion clinics and wear t-shirts proclaiming “God Hates Fags”.

I corresponded with a friend in Europe last night.  He said that a lot of the venom comes from jealousy, both of Eliot Spitzer’s ability to afford that kind of coin, and from Ashley Dupre’s ability to to earn it.  I think he’s probably right.  But I still don’t feel sorry for the man.

I don’t know how I feel about her.  I try to put a price tag on forever having my name, my whole being, associated with one night of my life, and I just can’t do it.  I’d like to think that the tattoo above her money-maker, tutela valu, or “fair value”,  is wry, highly self-aware commentary, and that the public will find out that they have severely underestimated her.  I hope she’s carefully considering her options, and that she gets as much money as possible out of whatever decisions she makes.  I don’t think she’s stupid, because if she is, she would have blabbed to the media already, like that Brazilian bimbo.

Now that I’ve elaborated on why I think men do it, my next entry will detail some of what motivated me to work as an escort.  Stay tuned.

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