There are a lot of ways to embarrass yourself in public. But I can confidently say I’ve unlocked a very specific, deeply personal nightmare: singing your favorite pop star’s song at karaoke… while she is standing ten feet away watching you.
This is your reminder not to go barefoot at your cousin’s wedding while your drunk date twerks around the dance circle in chunky boots.
There’s a moment every night when I realize the night is no longer mine. Up until then, I’m in control. The bar is filling up, people are loosening, conversations are still happening. I can guide the room. That’s the whole point of DJing, whether people realize it or not: it’s not about playing songs, it’s about controlling energy.
Phoenix at night feels like a dare. It’s not like LA, where everything is curated and performative, or Vegas, where the chaos is packaged and sold to you with bottle service. Phoenix is different—quieter, wider, like something strange could happen if you just drove far enough into the dark.
By day two, I was already over it. The heat was relentless, my hair hadn’t seen a brush since Friday morning, and our campsite smelled like sunscreen, warm beer, and regret. My phone was hanging on at 12%, and I’d already lost one of my boots somewhere between a DJ set and a late-night food stand. That’s when he showed up.
I’m 26 years old, which in club years means I’m basically in my prime. I still get excited about picking an outfit on a Friday night, texting the group chat “we going out?” and pre-gaming on someone’s couch while blasting throwback Rihanna. I’m not pretending I’m above the club scene yet. I still love a crowded dance floor and the moment when the DJ drops a song everyone screams along to. What I don’t love is looking around the room and realizing half the men there could have been my camp counselor.
By 9 p.m., we were in full glam, taking mirror selfies in matching metallic dresses, telling ourselves we’d “pace it.” By 10:30, pacing was out the window. A promoter we met near the casino floor promised us a VIP table at Omnia Nightclub. All we had to do was show up and “bring the energy.”
There are nights in West Hollywood that feel scripted. This was one of them.
I’ve never been the girl who gets picked out of a line. That’s important to know. I’m usually the one clutching my ID, praying the bouncer doesn’t scrutinize my photo too long, pretending I don’t care if we get turned away. So when the velvet rope parted for me like I was someone important, it felt surreal.
There’s a rule you don’t break. It’s not written down anywhere, but every girl knows it: your best friend’s ex is permanently off-limits. Not for a rebound. Not for a drunk kiss. Not for “closure.” Not ever. I broke it on a random Thursday.
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