Hey kids, what time is it? It's Self Deprecation time. Let's go to too many hustles today. If this were a full chapter, it would end up being filled with dalliances, interludes fake dates and war stories of the sensual kind. I start with a question: "why would you stick with a playah?" One of the earliest examples of getting caught with my hand in the carnal area was an engagement party for a friend's sister. Me, blah, blah older girl, drunk, upstairs bathroom together, kiss, grope, girlfriend standing in doorway, nailed. Sorry, but Ijust have no stomach for 50 year old crap. Was it bleeding edge sex addiction? It's like bonding with a buddy who who confesses he's hooked on reds (AKA the-bar-bitch-you-ate) and you come back with, "yeah but I'm a sex addict" and he says "you've got the better problem". It should have run it's course before saying "I do" and not really meaning it. Hustlers by definition appeal to other hustlers or wannabes. It's a terrible waste of precious effort in a world and time that needed dedication. Here's a typical one: Hank Collins was a shitty bar in a dump not far from Broad Street. We frequented Hank's because 1) they served underage customers and 2)the people who drank there were troglodytes strangely weird. Having a drink one night with a homo and his friend Joan, a 20s single mom with pockmarked cheeks. Drink, laugh, drink, let's explore upstairs, dark meandering with requisite groping, kiss, kiss, let's go back downstairs - - why do I do these things? Well, every hustler either converts or loops endlessly until the graveyard of the creeps becomes the setting. So maybe I should retitle this section almost too many hustles because underarm deodorant is the only remnant of the pre-conversion days. Shake, shake shake . .