The time is 4:45 am.

The location is somewhere seedy with an illegal liquor license.

The company is a fellow party girl of mine and a bar manager from a local dive bar who feeds us too many shots too late at night. 

The music is a mix of punk rock that topped the charts before I was conceived.

Sometimes I think people should stop letting me into bars.

Sometimes I think people should stop doing things I say.

Sometimes I think people should stop listening to me when I tell them I’m fine. 

“I love your crop top,” says a boy that followed me here from Davey Wayne’s before feeding me a key bump of some cocaine that tastes like gasoline.