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Smoke fills the room and collects under an IKEA light fixture that hangs from the ceiling by a nail, its cord exposed, reminiscent of a scene from ‘Swingers.’ It feels so good to smoke inside. It reminds me of Spain. I’ve been putting my cigarette ashes on the ground all night, letting the gray remainders fall on the wood-paneled floor so they can eventually get swept away by the seismic ocean of dancing feet.
By this point, everyone is starting to feel a little ill; our throats are a little scratchy and all of us are a little claustrophobic. My buzz is settling in nicely. Thank God Jen decided to be the designated driver tonight. Right now she’s drinking

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