After yet another questionable night, I found myself dreaming of a dungeon surrounded by chains and cages.

Or at least, I thought I was.

Too many clubs. Too many events. Too many people asking “Doreen, what’s going on?”

So I made a list.

After a week of emotional recovery, I was ready for another club opening. Then Hera dragged me into the bathrooms at The Cage before I’d even finished my first drink.

A mysterious invitation led me into a hidden punk bunker where the walls sweated, the music screamed and absolutely nobody cared about safety regulations.

I abandoned the calendar for one night and attempted to navigate the nightlife entirely on instinct. Naturally it turned into a cascading series of missed sets and public humiliation.

Emotional devastation in heels. By the time I reached Valmoor, Invad3r was already dropping his final beats into the Boiler Room, leaving me with only fragments of the night to survive on.

I’m starting to suspect the club scene has quietly organized itself around my destruction and that I’m currently held together by determination, questionable chemistry and excellent lighting.

Clubs, like ex boyfriends, leave gaps you quietly fill with something else. And then they return and ruin all your progress.

Sonance did exactly that.

Tell me again why this felt like a dream in which I went looking for a club and found one with a countdown. One last night, and everything slowly turned green.

Red lighting and I don’t usually get along. It ruins perfectly good nights before they begin.

The Rote Hase fixed that problem and turned it into something dangerously good.

I don't usually wake up like this, but Wednesday I did. Newstead Abbey was calling and I don't ignore calls like that.

Proceed with caution.

Punk wasn’t exactly my thing, but there are reasons to make you try anyway. A borrowed sweater, a bit of effort, and suddenly I was on a rooftop fighting the establishment. Not bad for a Tuesday.

It started as a pool party and ended as something far less innocent. Let’s just say the water wasn’t the only thing getting heated.

There’s a version of me who edits photos the morning after. She drinks lattes and makes excellent decisions.

We’ve never met.

It takes a lot to change my Thursday plans. Last night I had a very good reason. It was pleasure.

The Snake Pit opened it doors.

420 at The Continental sounded like a good idea at the time. No one seems to remember it clearly. My camera, as always, does.

I closed Sunday out across a few clubs, with Bardeco as one of the final stops. The bar is good, the room breathes, and the ratio of good-looking men is, statistically speaking, suspicious.

The theme was oil and I had multiple concerns. Serious, vocal, extensively shared concerns. As usual I was overthinking it. Everything went smooth and everyone was beautiful.

Wednesday used to mean nothing. A placeholder. A day you get through on the way to something better.

The Continental doesn’t do placeholders.

Two days of Poolapalooza because the bouncer at NITE told me no. A weekend full of heat, chaos, and moments you don’t chase, but find you.

One door said no. Everything else opened.