After

Hollywood Boulevard

       "Want company sweetheart?" I leaned down into the small window of a cheap silver sports car to find a white man who looked like he was trying to be black.
       "Keep walking-" the man went on to call me a very explicit adjective that I did not care to repeat. His words, though I heard them quite often, stung. I was a hooker on the boulevard of broken dreams so, to be honest, his word fit. I knew they did. I knew what I was. That didn't make it hurt any less though.
I wasn't always this way. Once, not that long ago, I was a true beauty. One with striking green eyes and dark black hair. I was a cheerleader. One who wore her high ponytail with pride and shook her hips down the hall in her small red, gold, and black uniform. I was the queen bee, just like Regina George in Mean Girls.
Now, I always held a cigarette in my hand and my hair was dyed blonde with black roots. I ditched the high pony and tiny skirt and top for chest length hair, knee length boots, and low cut crop tops. The only thing that remained from my youth were those green eyes that I sometimes liked to stare into and remember my former self.
I grew up in Canton, New York and was a proud Canton High Striker. Then, I ditched college for the allure of the bright lights of California with dreams of stardom and millions. What ended up with was a shitty apartment and fifty bucks an hour.
I shared that shitty apartment with a fellow woman of the night who went by Jade. Jade was about ten years older than me and was your typical American beauty with blonde hair, blue eyes, and obnoxiously fake boobs. She had a personality that made you listen to her (whether that was out of fear or awe depended heavily on the situation).
My name is Catherine Smith, now known as Roxie Vyne, and, yes, I am a victim of the boulevard of broken dreams.