By Clea Bierman
Originally Published in [PANK]
At 8am on a Sunday morning I found myself running east on 33rd Street from Madison Avenue. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there or where exactly I was going. It was July and the New York air was dewy. I could feel the strings of my bikini—tied too tight—digging into the sides of my neck. Why I had a bikini on, I couldn’t be sure. Between the hours of midnight and 4am, I’d finished a gram of cocaine by myself. 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. But bursting into a moment of consciousness while mid-sprint fifty blocks away from my apartment was something new..