Pass the Prozac

Once inside, I was completely intimidated by the crowds of young Gatsbys and the misses who posed near them, long-limbed as colts. They were all so pretty, and so un-depressed. They talked to one another, and laughed and flipped their hair, and moved sinuously through the closely packed crowds. Pretty! A man bought me a drink, but then stirred it for me before he handed it over. Did his hand need to be over my glass so long? Doesn't he know I'm paranoid? I drank the drink anyway, roofie or no. He wasn't originally from Newport Beach, he said, and he didn't so much like it. "All the women only care what you drive and how much money you have," he said, and I'm pretty sure he wanted me to ask for myself when he continued, "I got you the most expensive rum." How very rich!

I hid on the patio, and a young lady was friendly as her friends looked away. "I love your dress!" said she, her backless, midriffless, strapless top stuck to her firm little self with false-eyelash glue. How sweet! "I mean, I couldn't get away with it, but you totally can! I love it! It's so . . . different! I do!" Sisterhood is powerful. And as I, deflated, slunk past the swollen line to get in on my walk of shame out, I remembered that it's not me! It's them! And I laughed and tossed my hair and sashayed away.

Psych! No I didn't.