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High-Class Woman

[whitespace] Calling in sick with kidney failure

By C. Silo

It's 7am tuesday. your eyelashes are stuck to your forehead, and you can't think up even the simplest excuse for skipping work. No one bought the food-poisoning bit you used last Monday, so this time you settle for something truly dire and unusual: kidney failure. Considering the number of white Russians you poured down your esophagus last night, this is not a complete lie, but it does require a small amount of research. You're unsure of the lingering symptom you'll need to enact on Wednesday--the understated limp accented by the lime-green Prada oxygen tank or the runny nose with the paisley Anna Sui catheter bag? Decisions, decisions.

But you count your blessings--after smoking nearly two packs of cigarettes the night before, you conveniently reactivated your stoma and thus sound like a double-holed sea cretin on your boss's voicemail. And thanks to your slow metabolism, you are still slightly drunk and now have the balls to describe your misery in horrendously dramatic terms. There can be no doubt that you are depraved. But if you hadn't gone to Density at the Justice League last night and danced on top of the speakers as if you were a goddess from some sweaty, double-jointed planet, you probably wouldn't be in this state. Alas, the truth hurts, but not as much as your thighs, which you sprained trying to show a crowd of drum 'n' bass kids how to maneuver the old school freak ("It's all about the ass--watch mine").

Oh, sweetie, you'll be all right, just as long as you try your hardest to forget the rest of the evening, when you stumbled outside and yelled to the door boy that you'd blow him if he'd come in and "own the dance floor" with you. Oddly, no one, including the security, found that one particularly appropriate. Luckily, you eventually passed out in your own bedroom fully clothed. It's 7:25am, and you are ready to go to work; no one's having your bullshit anymore. But don't worry, honey--your liquid eyeliner is still absolutely perfect and you definitely smell like a high-class woman. Feel the light, girl. Memories of last Saturday will get you through the day.

You seemed so strikingly happy at the Conscious Sessions warehouse party--I could have sworn you had swallowed at least two hits of Ecstasy, but then, you do have such a sunny disposition naturally. You just seemed so blissful tramping around with the redheaded Hugh O'Connor, who helped you scan the premises for unsuspecting youngsters. Revealing yourself to be a proletarian sympathizer, you seized upon the stunning Teamster, who, surprisingly, did not cover his Schlitz with a 'Niners beer cozy. He was a bit taken aback when you asked to see his collection of dented, bloodied aluminum bats, but he appeared most provoked when you reached into his miniature Igloo and grabbed a Fritos sandwich. Cheeky you!

But the music was so good you didn't care about dealing with anything but the speakers. Your soul was ordered to the dance floor and there was no turning back. As DJ Josh worked the turntables with his usual intuitive precision, you came to the realization that if it weren't for house music, the club world would be silent, platforms would never have reappeared and, most importantly, you'd still be listening to Great White. Not to mention you'd probably stop getting canned from all your strenuous temp jobs--and Lord knows you're much too real to ever let that happen.


Small things often come in small packages: c_silo@hotmail.com

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From the April 26, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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