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Thirsty! So ridiculously thirsty! Like seriously about to dehydrate and die I brushed back my sweaty bangs and reached underneath the makeshift bar for something really cold to quench my really hot thirst. A liquid nitrogen cloud fogging up my glasses I held my breath and grabbed two or three energy drinks out of the Styrofoam cooler, swarms of frantic humans buzzing above me, yelling above me — the entire gallery hive stinging me with a get-back-to-work glare as I quickly pushed myself back up on my stiletto heels and with my medicinal honey held really tight to my chest, abruptly decided to go on break. For my health’s sake . . . Now it definitely wasn’t easy, and it definitely wasn’t without its fair share of doubt and despair, but somehow, through it all — through the heartburn, the gag reflex, the near-death experience — somehow I definitely did manage to finish the first can of yellowgreen fuel in under thirty seconds! Oh yes, I definitely did! With an extra-small fist pump I burped, burped twice then wiped my red painted lips on the back of my pincer. Not quite conscious yet, not quite back yet, I cracked open the second or third can and plunged my finger-hooks down into a jar of deep-fried espresso beans. I chugged and chewed. Chewed and Chugged. Because I like definitely needed a boost after giving up two or three hours of my precious life to help the Palestinian caterers build the really full bar at the back of the gallery — the blue and white, Lego-brick bar equipped with all the very special machinery required for serving up mango with manna smoothies, peyote popsicles, Southern Appalachia moonshine milkshakes, Guinness and gelato floats, morphine sundaes — all drinks and ambrosial delicacies brought to you by the Lower East Side Initiative for Neighborhood Glee, the New York City Department of Cultural Fun, the National Foundation for Amusement, the International Endowment for R and R, the Universal Fund for Memorable Debauchery, plus a whole other long list of boneyard benefactors, Mafioso sponsors. Streams of yellowgreen fuel trickling down my powdered chin, down my dry-cleaned dress, I tilted my head all the way back and finished off my fuel, hoping against hope that the polar vortex still shrieking and shrieking outside wouldn’t like actually stop anyone from showing up tonight. Not that I thought it would. Not on a Thursday night in Manhattan. Not with…
