Morning After Mystery Domino, Glued Glasses An hour ago I was wearing gym shorts while gnawing on fried chicken from the Harris Teeter hot bar and using their free wifi to check my horoscope. My glasses are held together with super glue. Ask me how. You heard me checking in and shouted that you followed me on Twitter and it was A Sweet Moment and made me feel like less of a sophomore at a senior dance, which is exactly what I acted like, not introducing myself. I’m seeing everything through a premenstrual shimmer of anxiety: instead of sleeping I’ve read so many of the Sookie Stackhouse novels one after the other that I am playing make-believe at this moment pretending that I’m a telepath fairy who can feel radiant energy, who knows what you’re going to say before you say it, who can tell how long it’s been since you last fucked or fed, has blood that predators find intoxicating. I bet your feet hurt and you're fucking tired of smiling. I’m biting the inside of my mouth because I’m afraid something embarassing is going to happen if I don’t. When was the last time you took the bus? I went on a date this week where she started the timer on her phone and asked me to talk about myself for a full five minutes. Bright discomfort, neon green dress, warm wind, dizzying heights. At precisely which moment does saying something is "so Asheville" become so Asheville? This is fun but so is taking a bath alone. It turns out I’m not old enough to resist an open bar. I’m not old enough to resist this pale glistening moon coming into its fullness either, the sea-glass brown river coming through the green trees, the pollen’s been choking, drifting, piling on my windowsills. But I’ll take a headache for this any day, the dirt under the gravel parking lot stirred warm by the breeze, laughter and lights above. You look like a richer, hotter, calmer version of the Eat, Pray, Love lady and you’re drinking water from a wine glass. I want to talk to you more than anyone else here. I’d like to watch all your dreams come true from a reasonable distance. These were the first heels I ever bought for myself, the summer I worked at a Banana Republic after my first year of college. I wore them the night I puked in the punch bowl, I wore them to my oldest sister’s wedding, the first night I stayed out until dawn dancing, the nights of my second and third one-night stands. I walked in them all through the streets of Dublin and Brooklyn and Philadelphia, Berlin and London. I danced in them with my boyfriend in an almost deserted Grand Central Station, when I was 22, a holy terror, and the security guards were hooting at us with soft benediction, and he was pulling me by the hand through the revolving glass doors into the warm city night. I wore them to my college graduation and when I met the second man I met in Asheville, trying to dress like Beyonce, see-through polka-dot tights and rhinestone bra, cut-off tee, and I was soon getting kissed pressed up against a pick-up truck while the mountains listened in and I prepared to save my own skin. Fuck networking.