Buying Dialogue Writer Needed for Memoir

I'm working on a memoir about my experience of going back to college over 30 years old and I'm seeking a dialogue writer to write/re-write dialogue for certain scenes of about 250-300 words per scene. In some cases, there's a "setup" of what the scene will be about and you are to write the dialogue between two or more people. I'm looking for punchy dialogue with action. You will be paid $3 per dialogue scene via Paypal. This is for all rights.

Send me some writing samples, particularly samples with dialogue, so I can get a feel for your writing style. You can also create a sample based on the theme of the book.

Here's what the book is about:

Is self-pity the mother of ambition? I stood in the kitchen of my Manhattan apartment scrubbing dishes while fending off sulky looks from the trashcan. A load of laundry lurked in a shadowy corner of the bedroom. And I hadn't prepared dinner yet. At thirty-two years old, a housewife, and a college dropout, I wondered, what went wrong? It was then I decided to go back to college.

Fast-forward to my reintroduction to academe. Undergraduate college life on an inner-city campus was like a kindergarten rebirth after my thirteen-year hiatus. The readiness I felt from flipping through how-to-re-enter-college books went south because they provided superficial information. Plus, they were geared towards 18-year-olds. I wasn't prepared for the awkwardness of making friends who had barely heard of John F. Kennedy and didn't know Britney Spears wasn't the first to gush, "I Love Rock 'n Roll." Homeless persons going to college? Boy was I wrong! But it was the challenging coursework that lead me to the blunt reality that perhaps I was too old for college.

My endeavors as a student, and how I did and did not deal with them, is the central theme of "Setting My Apron on Fire: Housewife Turned Undergraduate Student."

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Here is an excerpt from the memoir, so you can get a feel for my writing style:

The professor started reading our poems out loud. I sat horror-struck. I knew that once she got to mine, everyone would know my secrets. They would know about the ramblings I had doodled in my journal while sitting on the subway, scrutinizing the newly formed character lines that veiled my face.

The professor was a trained poet. She knew what my poems meant, even though I concealed some of the prose with clouded versions of the truth. She announced to the class, "Poet's always have this thing they write about. And they write about IT always. They become obsessed with IT." With that introduction, she proceeded to read my poem.

"This poem is by Bre, titled Bottom Feeders. . ."
I sank my face towards the desk. I could feel everyone's eyes burning a hole in my blouse.
She continued.
"No drive-bys from the fountain of youth,
for us.
We marinate in the sweat of reality,
devouring every piece of compliments
we can get our hands on.
Bottom feeders from the dark side
with the light side running as fast as it can
We're trapped
Stuck.
Watching the ticking clock
Smuggling the sagging flesh
hanging from our bodies."

When finished, everyone clapped except me. I raised my head from the Black Hole and came up feeling like I was standing naked in the middle of Times Square trying to cover my ta-tas and backside with small hands. But the roast wasn't over. She raised the stakes by asking the students to analyze my piece.