On the floor my feet are cold. My sandals or pointe shoes or whatever it is I am wearing reposed 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.