On the floor my feet are cold. My sandals or pointe shoes or whatever it is I am wearing sit in front of me.
I’m trying to pee.
Whatever. I can’t.
I think I have somehow grown a dreadlock in the night and it might be Halloween because black lights fill every light fixture and I may or may not be wearing a tutu unironically in 2009.
I go outside and the autumn Tennessee night is calm, a solemn wind sighs, and a few cars hum, whirrrr by into the darkness– A great dissonance from what is beginning to happen.
Shouting. Inside, the lights go out.
Fuck, my purse is inside. I say something stupid to my group who are somehow chain smoking Djarums I and barge off like a harpooned whale, caterwauling into the night, 40 oz to freedom in one hand and a vanilla clove in the other.
Jesus, who the fuck am I?
I’m not sure if this is a house party or a bar anymore.
But it’s all the same anyway.