“White. Like snow,” she thought as she inhaled. It burned. A warm, acidy feeling—then everything went numb. She liked when she couldn’t feel her nasal passages, she didn’t even mind when they began to drip, began to bleed. She would take her thumb, blot the tip of her nose and slyly wipe the mucus mess behind the hem of her skirt, on the underside of a table cloth, on the wall—it didn’t matter, no one would notice. She was sure of it. Besides, they were just as fucked up as she was.

Like the guys in the corner. They just stood there, barely a hint of expression, leering at anything with tits. Once in awhile they would raise their booze-filled drinks in a silent cheer. “She’s such a slut. I’ll totally get with her tonight.” They wouldn’t. The most they would do is grind their hard cocks on any chick lingering too close to their quarters. Unless they had some GHB. She didn’t doubt it.

Her heart began to race and the constant string of outrageous ideas, elaborate plans, and unwarranted compliments began to flow. “We are soooo totally going to do it. I swear to God. No, I swear to God! Oh my God! Who does your hair? Who? How much? Where did you get those shoes? Where? I like, love this song. I love it. ” To her it sounded like straight philosophy. She was a master of words and everyone was listening. Only they weren’t. Neither was she, but it continued. She needed to distract herself.

She found a guy, he was decent-looking enough. Tall and muscular, dark hair and an even darker smile. She sat with him alone in the other room while the party continued, a blur set to anonymous pop songs. She touched her hair, a lot, while he tried to touch her. The strings of mindless chatter went in circles, he told her his major four times before she remembered. It was history. He wanted to be a professor, “Like, after I see—the world,” he said. She really didn’t give a shit what he wanted, because she just wanted him. He was there, she was jittery—a good lay would calm her down.

It didn’t. They went to the bedroom and as she ripped off her tiny dress to reveal her tinier body, bony even, she liked it that way, he just stared at her—his heavy breathing filling the room with the odor of whisky. Cheap whisky, she could tell. The room was spinning and she lowered herself down on his lap. “Oww,” she thought. She wasn’t wet, but the urge for promiscuity was enough to manage. They didn’t talk, didn’t make a sound, and didn’t even kiss. She was just there. Her spindly legs going so fast it almost made the sound of a cricket. Crick, crick, crick. Or was that her teeth grinding? She hated when that happened.

He didn’t come and she was in pain. So she just got dressed and left him there, naked and dumbfounded. “He’s got a lot to learn about the world,” she chuckled to herself.

She got in line for the bathroom. “Fucking bitches,” she thought as the group of girls ahead of her giggled, laughed and yelled about flip-cup. One of them burped, emanating the stench of cheap beer. She smelled it. Gross.

When she was finally alone again, she looked in the mirror. Her brown eyes looked dead, her face sallow, she painted her lips a deep crimson. She didn’t care; she thought she looked like one of those fashion models, so burnt out and sick they looked cool.

Out of her purse she grabbed her stash, a tiny packet only about a quarter full. “Just like snow, white and pure,” she thought again. She yelled as someone banged on the door, “Wait a minute asshole!” She hated it when people interrupted her.

She scowled at the girl at the door, barely having enough time to narrowly escape the streams of pinkish vomit forcing their way between the girl’s fingers. A small piece of detritus landed on her shoe.

Disgusted and livid, she tore through the room, screaming and yelling like, “How dare someone do that to me! I’m soooo fucking grossed out right not. SOMEONE GET ME A TOWEL!” The tone of her voice rose to a shrieking pitch that seemed to hang in the air. Someone threw one. It was one of those guys. “Why don’t you come over here, I’ll get you squeaky clean.”

Her racing heart began to drum as anger welled up inside her. She wanted to scream, cry, hit someone…kill someone. She hated everyone right now, not that it was a new feeling. Often, at these parties, she would sit in the corner, gnawing her teeth and wishing death upon anyone who didn’t fit in to her ironic perception of perfection.

She left the party alone, like usual. She walked through the dark streets, her mind still trying to keep up with the speed of her pulse, “I’m too good for this shit,” she thought.

She got to her apartment, and laid in bed, her heart beating so fast she couldn’t close her eyes. When she did, that was it.

Her roommate found her three days later when she needed money for the utility bill.

Tara Sullivan is a senior English major and Editor in Chief of Generation.