I’m wearing a fishnet top, my favorite pair of worn-out jeans and patent leather boots lying on the floor of my tiny private room with a writing pad. My foot hurts. I drank too much. I took too many pain pills. I stink like fish (from the chef I danced for) and cotton candy (which I kept spraying to cover up the fish). I'm nauseating. I want to go home. Wonder if the DJ will let me leave a half an hour early. Shit, he's calling a two for one.