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Monthly Archives: March 2012

My ass is in the IMDb. Yes. It is official. I am an actress. I asked the director, Michael Johnson, if he needed a picture of me to go along with my entry in the database. He said I would need to give an IMDb employee a hand job in order to get my picture up there. I told him I have already handed all those out.

Speaking of hand jobs, if you are a director looking for fresh talent, well, you have found me. I may or may not service you. I would need to read the script first and contact an attorney. You will find me at YouTube and flickr as Roxi Xmas. Listen, I am exceptionally ambitious! So put my ass to WORK, already.


Do not pick yourself up. Do not call. Do not write.
Do not visit that garden with fire in your blood.
Do not put on those shoes. Do not do not do not dance.
Cry claw scream die. But do not do not advertise.

No Quarters

cannot call home

“You look like a whore.”
“Are you a porn star?”
“I don’t get paid.”
“My cock is throbbing.”
“That’s always nice to know.”
“Is your pussy wet?”
“My pussy is a swamp. Watch out for the alligators.”
“You should charge a motherfucker.”
“I should move to Scotland.”
“Why Scotland?”
“Castles and shit.”

“Buddy Holly got it right. Die at 23, pure as fucking fire.”
“I’m not going to swallow your sword.”
“What the hell are you talking about? And why the hell not?”
“My happiness is not contingent on a successful sex life.”
“Why are you so damn cynical? Here, drink some more vodka.”
“When I was 23 I wanted to die. I drank a quart of vodka, a bottle
of cheap blush wine, swallowed seven or eight allergy pills, listened
to Billie Holiday in the dark, screamed at God…all because my
sister’s boyfriend called and flirted with me then told me he didn’t
really give a shit about me. I was tired of people not giving a shit
about me. It scarred me for life, you might say. You might also say
I’m still tap dancing like I’m five years old, imagining the audience
in their Fruit of the Looms, dazzled considerably by my pure fucking light.”
“Give me a blow job, porn star.”
“Make it romantic.”
“Give me a blow job by candlelight, darling.”
“Kill me and get it over with.”

Rose saw Jack in the sky in the wheel of the squeak. He was a gold problem
heavy in the process. Jack tongued strings of solution as whiskey streamed
sex hum thrill doze. The rest of the world mute, mud and ice and stoic trudge.