Call Me Killjoy Lots of people wake up before the sun to go to work or the gym. I'm convinced these people are built differently than I am. I'm early to bed, late to rise. It's the sleeping schedule of a 7-year-old. Before 9 a.m., I am not a person. I don't know who or what to blame for this.
But I'm not headed somewhere sensible. I'm not going to work or the gym. It's 6 o'clock in the morning, and I am wearing galaxy-patterned leggings and a crop top, on my way to a rave. Yes, a rave, -- as in, a party. As in strobe lights, DJs, dance beats, glow sticks, splatter paint, silly string, moon bounces, ripped men in white tanks. If this doesn't sound quite on the nose, it's because I've never been to a rave before. I've only seen them on TV, in reruns of late '90s teen dramas. This is my first-ever rave, and it's happening at 6 a.m.
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