i'm just not that kind of stripper Don't barrel in here with your shotgun out thinking you're up to something good because I can't be saved. Don't dangle your benjamins, car keys or titles to your homes in front of me. I don't strip for money. I'm not that kind.
If you understand the currency of the soul, then I'm open for business. I'm a simple girl, I only want three things:
Your heart. One morning, you will wake up in Venice with webbed feet, a husk of yourself, wondering if this is a dream you wrote or are living. And don't even think of asking for it back. It's mine now.
Your senses. Overnight, your eyes will unfocus and refocus, and then nothing you see will look real. Everyone in this world will be nice to you. Every part of your body will look delicious. You'll apply cologne before going to bed. You could eat people for lunch, you're so hot. You're drinking Jean Nate. You're now dangerous, a mobile steamed-up shower. There you go, veering off the road, pushing elevator buttons eight times, getting off on the wrong floor, stubbing all your little toes, feeling invincible when you are a walking violation. Will life's daily routine just stop for a moment so you can daydream? That's when your head is clear, when you're dreaming. Yes, that makes sense. If you could just stop and dream, the giant magnet that surrounds you, directing every aspect of your daily existence like a puppeteer, might cut you a break. And still you can't relax.
Your car. That's right. No one drives Captain Control's car. Ever. Even if you were mauled by a tiger, bleeding on the side of the road, you'd haul yourself up there and press a stick on the gas pedal, wouldn't you? Here he comes skidding up to the ER at 90 miles per hour, squinting under the steering wheel through his blood-soaked eyes! So what if I said I didn't want your car keys? I lied.