I step on the dark stage, the cheap plastic of my platforms cutting into the top of my toes, every step bringing a pinch of pain. I keep my eyes down, following the flecks of silver on the unforgiving stage, waiting, exhaling a breath in controlled anticipation, my abs tightening. Then, the lights come on and I have almost three minutes to forget. Welcome to my life, a drained bank account and six nights a week spinning around a greasy strip club pole. When salvation comes in the form of six feet of drop-dead-gorgeous, complete with a limo and a thick wad of cash, my stilettos run happily out the door to freedom. They say that money doesn’t buy happiness. But it does buy escape. Happiness is an overrated fairytale.