Second House on the LeftYou are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. But here you are, and you cannot say that the terrain is entirely unfamiliar, although the details are fuzzy. —Opening lines of Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City (1984)
You turn the corner on a street that isn't as well lit as the one you just passed. As you stop to adjust your bra you notice that several of the overhead lamps which randomly go off and on throughout the night, seem to stay off more than they go on, at least down this particular street. Your milky white skin reflects a sickly yellowish orange and you think it probably wasn't such a good idea to have waited so long. But you didn't want to share with your mom and she just wouldn't go home. Leaves are piled up along a broken down picket fence that may have been painted white in the distant past or may just be covered in years of bird shit now. You decide not to check, even though you're curious. Pausing for just a moment you think "Hey, what's the worst that could happen," and you start down the street hoping you're just too fat to get raped. Then you remember some guys happen to like that sort of thing. Now you're hoping you score before they do cause then you won't mind it so much. You're also wishing you didn't total you're car last night but then you remember you wouldn't have dope money if it weren't for the scrap metal. You're an optimist. You only need to make it past the vacant lot, and it's the second house on the left. After that it really doesn't matter what happens.