The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost
Strip club lockers are like dryers. Shit gets lost. Socks, garters, body spray... it ends up falling into some void in the back of the damned locker. In some other universe, there is a black, black void. In this black void floats all the missing stripper gear. A single pink fishnet thigh high floats by. A rogue thong zooms past your head. It's like Peter F. Hamilton sat in a Victoria's Secret dressing room and wrote a novel about it. You will give up hope on that limited edition pink lip gloss and go through your mourning period. You will move on to a new shade, because deep down in your heart you know that Placid Pussy Pink would want you to move on and find happiness. After months with Melodious Mauve, what happens? The Void spits your beloved lost gloss back out and you have to go to couples counseling with both shades. Or you can go strip in Utah and keep them both. Maybe start a lip gloss harem. It's so common that it becomes totally normal shit to hear a stripper squ...