And I was out.Īfter four years in LA, I had a story to tell. The risk, the pleasure, the love, the feeling that I had something everyone else wanted. Not to the MDMA, not in the chemical sense where needing the drug feels like needing air. I began to help him sell, and before long, I was using myself. Our love was infectious, consuming, and euphoric, just like the drug he pushed. ![]() The following year, I met a charming, handsome MDMA dealer. I spent several nights a week spying on celebrities inside Hollywood’s hottest clubs - reporting their movements and interactions in five-minute increments - or interviewing them on the red carpet. I began my writing career at 22 with a coveted position as a red carpet and nightlife reporter for a weekly gossip column with enormous circulation - the kind of glossy magazine you’d see at the grocery store while waiting to pay. But I started to live a separate life in the Manhattan club scene, working as a “Bottle Girl” to pay my grad school tuition. Writing and publishing a book had been my dream for as long as I could remember, from the moment I started creating my own version of The Brady Bunch on lined, yellow notepads in the second grade. Two years earlier, I moved to New York to begin my MFA program. But bursting into a moment of consciousness while mid-sprint fifty blocks away from my apartment was something new. I worked as a bottle service waitress in Manhattan’s most elite hip hop nightclub, and lost hours and blurry memories had increasingly become the norm. Between the hours of midnight and 4am, I’d finished a gram of cocaine by myself. Why I had a bikini on, I couldn’t be sure. I could feel the strings of my bikini - tied too tight - digging into the sides of my neck. It was July and the New York air was dewy. ![]() I didn’t know how I’d gotten there or where exactly I was going. on a Sunday morning I found myself running east on 33rd Street from Madison Avenue.
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