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I learned a new lesson—unless, I’ve already learned it and forgotten it, or I’ve forgotten that I was supposed to learn it—never tell a twenty-year-old girl with a troubled past and current issues with a trailer park boyfriend, that you sometimes do drugs. First thing out of her mouth, “Do you have any? Let’s get high.”

“No, sorry, sweetie.” Fuck. Now I’m going to have to deal with this inquiry every time I see her. And mask the fact that I’m high when we work together. Which should be a breeze because it’s not like I announce my business, but to someone who also does meth, it might be easy to spot my personality difference—even from the time I get to the club to the time I’m ready to hit the floor. Although I could attribute this to the booze. And the fact that most of us put on a certain hyped-up, happy persona for our type of work. But it’s so much better when my shit is undercover. I have no idea why I told her. She was at my house and we were getting ready for a photo shoot. She was putting on make-up while I was setting up lights and shit, and was yapping away, my mind was on a million things, and before I knew it, I was telling her how I prefer crystal over blow and that I do it at the club sometimes. Even in my sweaty, thinking-about-too-many-things state, I recognized my mistake instantly. She’s already one of those girls who asks me for shit all the time. Do you have body spray? Do you have a baby wipe? Do you have a right heel I can borrow? She’s a sweet girl, but no way in hell I’m giving her any drugs. What a rookie mistake on my part. Hopefully it won’t bite me in the ass too bad. She did mention something about her uncle being a dealer or a meth cook as she left my house, so there’s that.

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