I was sitting in the back of a car watching people snort drugs (because this is Oakland, what else do we do with our time?) when the man with the bags turned to me and asked me where I was from. I tell him my cities and where I’m from, which felt like passing a test because Oakland, Richmond and Albany are okay places to be from when you’re the only girl in the back of a car filled with guys snorting drugs. The man with the bags nodded with approval and passed me the keys, which I demurely declined for a moment before I remembered that this key bump is the key to belonging here, where I am, and if I don’t belong where I am right now, then I am in trouble. Not imminent physical peril kind of trouble but spiritual trouble. Social trouble. So I oblige and accept, and Instagram names are exchanged, and then the link is clicked, and then there we both are: looking at my blog. Which in some way presents a new kind of social peril, so I click my heels and go back to my Kansas, which is inside the bar that this car is parked outside of so I can buy more Hennessy and roam freely with the freaks. As I’m going inside, I see the boy I didn’t date and his new girlfriend who doesn’t like me. Neither of them smile or wave back at me as I hightail inside, which is fine, I guess, but it does give me a moment of pause as I consider my bad life decisions before getting fondled by the various charming gentlemen of Thursday night downtown debauchery. Inside, I am met by a man who smells like four days of cocaine and tells me that my writing is good, but it’s still getting there, and then he unwinds into a barely comprehensible conversation about darkness, and how he is standing on the bottom of the ocean, and when he writes, the only person he sees is me because I am the only one standing on the bottom of the ocean with him. He tells me that even his closest friends aren’t standing on the bottom of the ocean with him, but I am, and I laugh, because I don’t know if this is true, but it sounds so good even in the thick, sweaty air of this dark and loud bar. I know that if I wanted to fuck him, I could fuck him, but I don’t want to fuck him, and I also know now that reducing my human interactions to sex or not sex is trite and rather boring. So I float around in a circle to the bathroom then the bar, and I feel good after my one drink and skedaddle back home to drift into the ether of my own thoughts, all alone, feeling fine, and doing quite well.