She was plagued by her recent discovery of this little thing called “confidence in a bag” that a strapping young entrepreneur who frequented the darkest, back parts of bar had turned her on to. Maybe it was crippling, but in many ways she was doing her part to support the local economy.
She felt that he loved her, and when she did some more drugs, that love was increased ten fold, although it flowed out of her and there was no reasonable way for her to quantify the metric amount of love that was flowing into her. That would be messy. She could try, but mostly after he came inside her she just idled there and smiled, feeling slightly accomplished for assisting another human being into that heightened state of sheer bliss. Maybe it was something she hadn’t felt herself, but that was okay, because loving is about sacrificing.
She puts on eyeliner and mascara and says that it has more to do with self confidence than a backwards movement against the feminism that has been handed down from struggling hand to struggling hand.
She does cocaine and it makes everything okay.