This is the last 24 hours: Donna and I put on our eyeliner and took the bus to the Wonder Ballroom to see CocoRosie last night at eight. We were early so we slipped into the bar to have a drink. An old flame of Donna's from five years ago happened to be bartending, and fed us free cape cods, and I watched the beautiful people in threadbare jackets and hats with feathers. I was looking for this boy I slept with a few weeks ago who also happens to work at that bar, but I didn't see him.

We headed up to the show, but the opening band sucked so we sat against the wall. I texted the boy and asked if he was around. Eventually we found him by the stairs and he proceeded to give us more free drinks. Sleeping with bartenders comes in handy sometimes. Donna and I danced to CocoRosie, even though they never played my favorite song. Dancing is totally fun and I should do it more often. We pretended we were a lesbian couple and even did some swing dancing.

So this boy, who I should mention, when I slept with him before I did the typical boy thing and crept out at 5 am without waking him up, and haven't called him since... anyway he was like, "Never thought I'd hear from you again" and also told me he had decided my laugh was his "favorite", whatever that means. After the show we ended up down in the bar again, now with both my and Donna's former boy-toys giving us free drinks. It was awesome.

At some point he started working on getting me to go back to his place and I thought, eh, why not? Despite the fact that I had to work at 8 am and it was now 1 am. I left Donna to fend for herself and boy and I took a cab to his house. What can I say, he was cute. I really don't have any experience in this type of thing so I don't know if I was being mean, but I just didn't want to sleep there, especially since I had to work in the morning, so I got dressed, apologized briefly, and took a cab home at 3 am.

Now, even though I'd had a lot to drink, I couldn't fucking sleep. I had a dream about shooting cocaine and I could actually feel it in the dream, and then I was wide fucking awake. Around 5:30 I couldn't stand being in bed anymore, I was so restless, so I got up -- still drunk, mind you -- took some advil, took a shower, tried to wash myself into a state suitable for work. Pete gave me a ride at 8 and I walked into the cafe to a line out the door and complete madness: welcome to Friday morning. I barely had time to gulp a cup of coffee in between the crowds of pastry-hungry masses.

Coming to work hungover, still drunk, on one hour of sleep after a dubious one night stand which left me full of self-hatred, what could be more perfect than the busiest day I've had so far at the cafe? From 8 to 11 there was a constant line out the door, we sold out of pastries hours before normal, it was just non-stop pulling espresso, wiping coffee grounds in my hair, endless lattes, croissants and cinnamon rolls, and barely keeping up with the dishes.

And it gets better: I was only supposed to work until 12, and I was checking the clock every 5 minutes in utter agony, but Natacha says, "Can you stay until 3? Katie has to go home and write a paper." I tell her, "Um, I got like one hour of sleep last night and I'm completely dead." She asks me, "So, do you just party all the time?" because there were a few other times when I was late or really tired from being out. "No, really, it's just that it was my birthday last weekend.. and then this band was in town, and I stayed up too late." She pulled me aside and asked if I was ok, if I was "taking care of myself". I'm fine. And sure, I can stay till 3. Fuck it.

Then around 11:30, I had just gotten off my lunch break, and this lady walks up: "I've been waiting for my Mediterranean panini for half an hour!" I'm like, "fuck, I was on my fucking break and I have no clue what's going on with your sandwich" (without the profanity) and poor Deann is like, "Um, if you're in a hurry, maybe you shouldn't order a *grilled* sandwich", and the lady keeps interrupting the nice customers who are trying to order tea. She says, "I put a dollar in the tip jar and I want to take it back, I waited for this sandwich for half an hour!" Fine, take your dollar, do you think I care?

Deann throws up her hands and says, "Girls, let's start this day over, because things are just getting worse." Just then, some guy walks up and hands us his sandwich, uneaten: "I ordered this without mayo and it has mayo on it" and walks out before we can offer him a refund. Natacha is like, "Becky, you have to help Deann with the sandwiches, this is unacceptable." Hey, I was on break, I was not a part of this situation.

Fuck it. I'm hauling bus pans full of dishes back to the sink, so heavy I can barely carry them. My hangover is getting a little better and I'm up to my elbows in soapy water. I can handle dishes. Dishes make sense to me. I'm thinking, only for this job. Only for this job in this lovely cafe would I have come in on one hour of sleep in this state of mind. I have to keep this fucking job.

Then this quote comes to me, from the book "How to Stop Time" by Ann Marlowe, about her heroin addiction. This quote circles through my head for the remainder of my day:

"After I quit," she says, "it gradually came to me that the messy stuff I'd been screening out with dope -- the nitty-gritty of having a relationship, constructing friendships, getting along with acquaintances, meeting new people -- the stuff that hadn't seemed worth the trouble, the stuff that had to be controlled so I could focus on the important matters, was in fact the only material life presents."

Natacha bakes some emergency scones and we're throwing bread all over the place, we run out of cucumbers, but stuff calms down, I get through the sweeping and mopping and count my tips for the day: seventeen dollars! Sweet!