Sexxx Shoppe Sabrina

I'm sorry, father.

Dear Dad,

I know you have a countless amount of money, like Scrooge McDuck, and even if you don’t exactly have a vault filled with magical golden coins waiting for someone to swim through them, I know you have enough to give me what I want. Dad, you know I am not exactly good with direction. I am not dedicated and a terrible employee. You know this firsthand from when I worked for you right out of college. Dad, how many countless amounts of time did I show up late, wearing the same thing I was wearing the night before, smelling of sex and booze? More than either one of us could count, and you, unlike me, remember most of those mornings.

Dad, I know my true calling and with the help of whore logic I know there’s still a possibility for me to become all that I can be. Before you have a stroke, I do not want to be in the sex industry, at least not exactly. My body might say SLUT, WHORE, BIMBO with its giant tits and swiveling hips, but my mind says ENTREPRENEUR. Dad, what if I took my super licentious body and whored it up in order to run a soon to be world famous sexxx shoppe. Dad, think about it, people are always going to pay for dildos because you cannot make them at home.

There could even be a gimmick to put us on the map. You have four daughters, and although legally one of them is too young to work in such an environment, three of them could dress up in latex, and spend the day spanking one another and selling perverts anal beads. Dad, before you say anything, you wouldn’t be a pimp. No way, you’d be chief investor and mogul of a sex industry empire.

Please give me what I want. I am spoiled and not suited for a desk job, and my only other alternative is to pull an Anna Nicole Smith and marry someone 97-years-old and pray they die while I am on top.

Love,

Your Daughter