My Brief and Disturbing Belly-Dancing Career

So, me and Rat B, we were going over my finances together, trying to come up with some way to render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and so forth:

"Rat B," I sighed, favouring her with an absent-minded noogie, "Rat B, I fear the situation is hopeless. The waters are closing over our heads. The wolf's snuffling at the enter-phone. Next step, debtors' prison. Oh, yes, Rat B, you and I, we're done for. Do you like ramen? I like ramen, as long as it's not the extra-spicy kind, with the kimchi in. That kind gives me heartburn."

"Sssksxxx," said Rat B. Sssksxxx is the sound of a rat simultaneously snuffling and grinding its teeth.

"We need a patron," I told her, popping half a grape in her mouth. "We need some old pervert who'll pay the rent every month, in exchange for--well, for an evening without you hanging about; let's put it that way. Of course, with that sort, they're all looking for, you know, una pudica vergine, degli'anni suoi nel fiore--some sixteen-year-old rose-petal, sort of thing, not some cynical old git. Oh, would you chew that grape, already? You can't just sit there holding it. What, are you waiting for me to take it back, or something? You think I just put it there for safekeeping? Augh. You're hopeless."

Rat B wriggled happily, dropping the grape between the cushions of the couch. I started telling her a story, not wanting to think about the bank any more.

"This one time," I told her (mentally adding "at band camp"), "way back in my misspent youth, before you were born--before your great-grandfather was born, even, or his great-grandfather--generations and generations ago, so to speak, me and my friends were hanging about in Rhonda's* attic. We were listening to Tori Amos, who hadn't got famous, quite yet. Or, well, she might've done, but I hadn't heard of her. It was my first time listening to her, that day. At first we were talking about the music, but then the conversation turned to belly-dancing.

"'I used to belly-dance,' I said, trying to keep the grin out of my voice.

"'Yeh?'

"'Oh, aye. Sure. Wasn't too bad, either.'

"'Let's see it, then.'

"'Aw, no....' (But I was dying to, of course, just dying. I had to spin it out a bit, though. These things are always better with a bit of a windup.)

"'Just a little! Come on!'

"'Well, awright, then. If you insist, I mean....'

"At which point, of course, I hoicked up my shirt and started writhing about like a mad thing--'Woo! Woo! Woo!'--and everyone started groaning and covering their eyes: 'That's just awful! That's the worst! Get your shirt back on!'

"And I started giggling--'hee-hee-hee'--and then we all took turns goosestepping past the door, like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers. It was especially funny when we were just coming up on the doorway, and all you could see was these flying feet and legs. There's something extraordinarily amusing about disembodied legs doing the goosestep past a doorway. Nazi Germany must've been a right...."

"You'll have given yourself Hitler dreams, right there," said Stella's ghost.

"Yah, who asked you? You left."

Rat B, she'd gone to sleep, the wee porridge-for-brains. I folded her into my pocket and parked myself in front of the computer, where I remained for the next twenty-one hours. I've got a six-page comic which has to be done by the end of this month; also, a portrait of a dog, and a book-cover, which I've also sworn (to myself, if not to anyone else) must be finished within the same time-frame. I've fallen horribly behind while I've been ill. It's time I got caught up, and got on with things. I've made some resolutions, too, for once I've got all this behind me:

1) No more commissions;

2) No more digital art. Well, maybe not no more, ever, but significantly less of it.

No commissions, because they use more time and earn less money than things I just draw and sell to folks. I mean, I like doing 'em, and making people happy, but look at me. I can't keep up any more. I'm as likely to disappoint people as I am to satisfy them. Until I see a significant improvement in my health, that's that. I'm becoming unreliable. It's not fair to anyone.

No digital art, for two reasons:

1) I never really got used to the medium. I find it clumsy and slow. I recently saw a preview of a commercial video tutorial I did on Photoshop, and I sounded a right git. I was all "I don't know what this does. Or this. I'll Google it before the next segment. Right, back to painting." What a twat!

2) Traditional art can, if necessary, be done in bed. I won't have to lose whole days any more, just because I can't sit up.

Besides, Mother's always said I was better at black-and-white than colour. Mother tends to be right about these sorts of things. Maybe if I do what she says for once, my fortunes will change. (Hey, I've tried everything else. When all else fails, one must listen to one's mother.)

I wonder if this'll all sound completely pants once I've had some sleep? There's a--a pants warning light blinking somewhere in my brain. It's making me nervous. I think that warning light is somehow related to the one which goes on at that moment when my brain realizes my mouth has said something that's going to get me laughed at.

And on that nonsensical note, I'm off!

* Name changed to protect the silly.