Swelter

Winding down the evening with a depressing last-call drink at one club or another, graceless, wretched, totally lost. Far gone in reverie and drink, recalling a time of seeming limitlessness, when we flew on private planes and went to houses with marble bathrooms as big as our apartment. The wave of self-pity interrupted by a hissing drag queen ("That's my foot, you drunk bitch") and a club rat's uniquely Miami-style monologue, all about the angst of having it all: "Where do you go when you get in wherever you want, when you've been everywhere and done everything? I'm so bored and disgusted. It's a dark and ugly forest out here, and believe me, you have to be strong to survive.