Imagine, if you will, settling in on a Saturday night. Pizza— ordered, thankfully. Wine bottles—empty, orphaned on the kitchen counter. Your roommate beside you, denting the cushions and lighting a blunt, generous with puff puff, less with the pass. The outside world may be churning with headlines and heartbreaks, but inside— inside, Saturday night is a sacred place. 

And like all sacred things, it must be guarded.

How unfortunate, then— would it be— if someone were to interrupt you.

The Jane Ballroom in the Jane Hotel on Jane Street — commonly referred to as The Jane — never failed to provide the boring with stories and the interesting with cocaine, though I’d recommend partaking in neither. But now, with The Jane long gone, I can’t help wondering if that ballroom was less a place than an Era— and if the lack of it has hit me harder than expected.

Because— oh, the memories…

I used to be young and hot, and now I’m slightly less young and still hot. Look at me, a slightly larger shell of the former shell I just was a few years ago. What’s a girl to do?

I was staying at a friend’s house in the Hamptons.

I thought I knew what soap looked like.

I was wrong.