Getting a little rusty with that scythe there, aren't we?

The closest thing I've had to a near-death experience was in a lesbian bar on Christian's birthday.

I'd had a beer at his house, a few at the Central West End Welsh pub that the group went to first, and a buttery nipple shot with Rachel at the gay bar that we went to second. It was the first gay bar I'd ever been to (or Welsh pub, for that matter). I wasn't anywhere near drunk when we headed across the street to the lesbian bar after they had last call. People were dancing, as opposed to trying to impress each other, and it was a more diverse group instead of Rachel and I being the only skirts. I headed straight to the floor with Micah and Shane for a blissful half hour of groove-thing-shaking.

The air was smoky and the sweat was stifling. The cigarettes I had a minute ago with the rest of the group at the table weren't helping either. I started recognizing the feeling I used to get in high school when I'd go running in July--lightheadedness, tunnel vision. Blackness. I tried to get one of their attention. The most important thing was to focus on the empty glass of vodka on the table and regain my sight. My thoughts were scattered in desperate blobs. I couldn't believe that this was how I'd go. I resigned myself to it. If it happened, it happened. I wondered what my mom would think. Goodbye, cruel world.

I woke up on the floor. Shane brought me a glass of water. A short-haired bulldozer of a gal--I'm assuming it was the bouncer--told me that I either had to sit in a chair or go. We went. My mom never found out.

I must lead a pretty charmed life if this is the closest I've gotten. I wonder if there are a few near-misses hidden away in the fabric of time. I don't know what's made me think of this, except for that I learned today that I won't be able to do the drag show at the PRISM dance after all. I've been learning a dance to "Luck Be A Lady." The Frank Sinatra version. It would have been excellent.