Every day the music dies.

The drugs were about to hit when the interview began. And once we stepped into public, there were not glances, but full-on stares from every direction. Clearly, we were making a scene.

On the sidewalk we ran into a friend with a record player, and inspected her collection. We cracked the player open but all that would play was the flash of blue and red lights from the vermin across the street.

Still, everyone was staring. We filed onto an overcrowded streetcar, hoping that our disguises would save us from small talk and explanations. We had places to be, and if we didn't up the dose, sobriety would return.

In the dark corner of a bar named after the female anatomy we finally got our filthy fingers on another round of drinks. A bottle of wine to share. Two beers for me. Champagne for the table.

Before the soup had arrived I was outside taking a cigarette break, damning the lesbians that wouldn't let me smoke indoors. Dinner was rushed and delicious, as if I hadn't eaten in days.As the bill arrived we tailgated to another bar, demanding two more rounds of drinks. I wondered aloud why everyone else was asking the questions.

The evening ended with a redhead on my balcony, neither of us entirely sure how we got there. I woke up in my bed alone, wearing someone else's clothes, wondering what the hell happened to Sid Vicious. Both cases ended in self-inflicted death.

*Excerpt from Fear of being the only ones dressed up for the costume party and Loathing she who invited us. Please direct all anonymous comments to Ice Age Heat Wave.