Florence Nightingale

I have a beautiful, young model friend who for very legitimate reasons that I won’t go into here, had a panic attack on NYE. Unfortunately for her I was the one available to take care of her in the Dickies dressing room at Bowery Electric. It went something like this:

X (hyperventilating): I can’t see straight.

Me: Take a sip of your water and try to breath slowly.

X: I think I was dosed.

Me: I don’t think you were, I think you’re having an anxiety attack.

X: I feel really weird.

Me (touching her arm): Try to just concentrate on your breath, we can sit here as long as you need to. Omg, that coat is gorgeous. Who made it?

X: Burberry. I really think I was dosed.

Me: No, everyone in this area is someone I know. I would have noticed someone acting strange. That coat is fucking amazing. I need that coat.

Steve Poss (walking by): Aw, don’t be sad, you’re too pretty to be upset! Do you want a vicodin?

X: No, thank you.

Me (yanking the pill out of his hand): I do. Give it to me.

X: All right, I can see a little better now.

Me: Good…Holy hell. Those are the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever seen.

X: YSL. I’m sorry I’m being a pain.

Me: You’re not being a pain. Those shoes are giving me pain. I think I’m going to have an attack because I don’t own those shoes.

X: You’re being so nice.

Me: Yeah, I’m a peach. What size are your feet? Damn it, lemme try one of those on…

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