It's 6 o'clock in the morning. Ungodly, unfamiliar 6 o'clock in the morning. I'm sitting in the backseat of my Uber ride -- a conspicuous Kelly green Scion -- sipping a papaya Vitamin Water and coasting toward Downtown Los Angeles. Eyewitness News plays on TV screens imbedded in the back of each headrest, a feature my driver tells me he added extra. He offers me Tic Tacs and tissues. I deny both. I am trying hard to focus on the horizon, to stay awake, to prepare myself.

I can't remember the last time I was up early enough to hear the morning news. There's a carjacking in East LA. A train accident in Burbank. Somehow, where I'm currently headed is not the most hazardous place in Southern California.

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.

Why?

In the age of the Internet, it's challenging to invent a social phenomenon that people haven't seen a thousand times before. But DAYBREAKER has done it, and that is why I'm here.

DAYBREAKER is an organization (or, a "movement," to put it their way) that throws early morning raves for the public with the mission of "starting your day off unlike anything else." The catch is not simply that these things start at 6 or 6:30 in the morning. (After all, I imagine that there are plenty of LA circles that party well past then on any given weeknight).

DAYBREAKER raves are sober. They're 6 a.m. sober raves. Horrified? So was I. Intrigued? So was my editor.

I'm the new girl at Total Beauty, so I get assigned to check out DAYBREAKER in real life. I guess they figure this won't be enough to get the new girl to freak out and quit. New girls are always so agreeable.

I admit, part of me is curious. This is not something I'd ever seek out myself, so the adventurer buried beneath the 10-hour sleeper in me wants to see what's up. See, the information I've found on the Internet about DAYBREAKER is sparse. I can't tell exactly what the intention is: Is this supposed to be an alternative way of getting in a morning workout? Will there be guided exercises? Or is it supposed to give addicts in recovery a place to party without all the ecstasy? What types of people will be there? Jazzercisers? High schoolers? Christians? Older gay gentlemen wearing mesh? Okay, maybe I am a little intrigued.

The green Scion pulls up to a high-rise corporate building downtown. Outside stands a cloud of 20- and 30-somethings, all smiles and colorful headbands, and I figure this is the place. We climb into elevators 10 at a time and ascend to a high floor.

I realize now that I'm one of the only people, if not the only person, here by herself. I half-expected this, but I didn't want to burden any of my friends with a desperate invite. I should have been more ruthless.

The elevator opens and a shower of EDM music washes over us. Everyone cheers and barrels toward the dance floor. Already, I could use a drink.

I settle for an organic granola bar, which I find on a table in the back, where I drifted upon entry, like a dateless bassoon player at the Homecoming dance. First observation? This is not like the raves on TV. The 3,000-square-foot room is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking sunny LA. That means this room is bright, which means whatever I do in here, people will be able to see it. I realize starting off your day in the dark might not be so energizing, but this visibility is making me self-conscious.

I pin myself to a corner, and as I decide when and how to plan my escape, I fix my eyes on the dance floor.

From what I can tell, no one else is suffering from this same paralyzing awkwardness. The room isn't packed -- there's a solid eight inches between each dancer -- and while that maximizes the visibility factor, paves the way for my party-pooping eye of judgment, people just don't seem to notice. The crowd is an eclectic mix, but almost everyone is smiling, boogying to the un-tssss, un-tssss of the DJ's cyclic rhythm.

I realize the one thing I did get right was the uniform: My galaxy-patterned leggings are spot on. It occurs to me that I've never seen so many leggings in my life as in this very room. The variety of prints is extraordinary: Holographic hexagons, Technicolor florals, jailbird stripes, anime, tropical landscapes... there's even a pair patterned with what I'm guessing is every available image of Ryan Gosling's face.

The spectacle doesn't stop there.

There is a guy in a lizard suit, a girl in a pizza suit, tutus, bunny ears, mouse ears, cat ears, faux animal ears of all species.

There's a pregnant couple rubbing the mom-to-be's belly to the beat. There's a woman with blue hair taking toothy, Tumblr-bound selfies.

A trio of burly men with brass instruments conga-lines in, playing along to the music, and the crowd goes wild. A breakdance circle forms -- they love that too.

And everyone, but me, is dancing.