Objective: To kiss your ass and those of your clients until payday

I'm trading in my flip flops for impractical shoes and will strut around Montreal for the better part of tomorrow in search of a new, likely drug-addicted and image-obsessed employer.
As you all know, my job provides me with financial independence, male attention and endless hours of postmodern yuppie-style laughs that have me addicted to it more than black coffee and Diet Coke combined. I've had enough of counting my pennies and watching my bank account deplete for four consecutive months, so tomorrow my tits, ass and I are off to the races to shake martinis until the corporate execs go back to the office.
Wish me luck!

Sometimes, I just can't help myself

Sometimes I forget that I am not at work.
Sometimes, flirting with older men is deemed 'unacceptable.'

Yesterday, I exchanged words with a friendly, red-scarved and starry-eyed man at the campus snack bar. The climactic portion of the spectacle went something like this:

NEW YORK TIMES READER: So are you a visiting student or a visiting charmer?
JACQ: Both.

New York Times Reader, who reveals himself to be a professor of economics at the university, starts for the nearest exit and goes for a long cigarette.

Mid-day carafes of wine are of what college dreams are made.

Corporate Suits Love Me

So I am the best barmaid in the world.
Lonely white-haired men sporting Black American Express cards are drawn to me like moths to a flame.
I'm not sure what it is, but I get such a kick out of them telling me over the bar of their secret Panamanian financial hideaways and high-budget, yet low-caliber movie productions that I just beg them to go on about their loveless and relentlessly quantified lives. It's sad and I, the fair barmaid, fawn over them, topping their Greygoose-on-ices, making them feel young again.
I really do love my job.