Good evening... My name is not Alina, but that's what I'd like to be called from now on. You see, the idea of telling my real name in here is just too much to bear, so it would make me happy if you were to refer to me by such an alias.
The reason to hide my real identity is because, even if I could, I won't precisely be writing about how I just found a sweet deal on shampoo at the supermarket, or about the cute guy that makes the drinks at my local karaoke bar, like a regular woman... I am far from being a regular woman anymore.
Speaking a little of myself, I guess I could tell you that I am in my late 30's, am a widowed mother to a wonderful teenage son, Miles (though that's not his real name either), have been living in a small 2 bedroom appartment in a very diverse, mostly immigrant community for the last year and a half, and I cannot remember the last day I didn't have at least a glass of cheap wine... Also, I'm a wanna-be freelance writer with a night job to support my son and myself, and here is where I start to get nervous... You see, it isn't easy to confess what this second job is about.
Why am I telling you about this, then? Well, because I was somehow convinced by my best friend, the only person in the world that I've told everything about my missadventures (as some sort of therapy, mostly) that my stories are interesting and absorbing, and worth sharing, and that I am talented enough to publish them... She somehow managed to see beyond my shame and my moral bankrupcy to find some sympathy and interest for a tainted soul, and actually made me consider that there's more people in the world that might find the life stories of a secret prostitute intriguing...
And now, even if it scares me, I feel like I should ask... Do you?