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“Where to, lady?”

I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!

I can only process two rational thoughts (1) I want rocery, and (2) I don’t want so Where’s Fluffy I need to erase the hts anthewhen genius girl decided to take Nick by the hand for soet back to that fking club

“Back to Ludlow,” I tell the driver

Did I go too far with Nick, or not far enough? Or is it that I’m just plain unattractive? I never should have deleted all those spa the vitamin supplements for fuller, firmer brsts I’o off in the wrong directions—over and out instead of up and in It’s probably time for me to wake up and accept the fact that I may be in need of a makeover

The driver sighs, shakes his head, then pulls an illegal U-turn across four lanes of traffic fro at the curb He turns up the radio volueplayer on the Kazakhstan soccer tearaveyard-shift taxi in Manhattan and listening to Z100 instead of the standard 1010 WINS (all news, all depressing, all the time), which I had always assumed to be the one cardinal rule of taxicab radio etiquette, I don’t know Everyone has their story

Vintage Britney sings from the pop radio station; she knows about toxic Nickhim in a closet at a Fluffy show He didn’t try to stop et into this taxi He didn’t even wave good-bye

The cab is careening doery, whizzing by the club where earlier tonight Nick asked if I would be his girlfriend for five ht at ic words—“FUCK-SHIT-COCK”—that leftCrazy Lou at the Where’s Fluffy show, long after those five minutes had expired Lou would only leave his club for someone else to close up shop if…

“STOP!” I shout at the driver over the music I’m already where I’m supposed to be

The driver slams the brakes so hard I tossof Oreos to the floor The taxi halted, the Kazakh poster king turns around and from the other side of the plastic divide yells back at me, “WHAT YOU WANT ANYWAY, LADY? WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?”

Tal is across the street, ushering the re up his uncle’s place for the night His post-show usual, Tal’s shirt is off and he’s sweeping the sidewalk I rean I re Nick He had sorab on to I want more touch

I don’t knohat’s the matter with me, driver But if I am destined to a life of loneliness and celibacy, isn’t there solory? One last booty call?