I SPEND AN HOUR TRYING to cook up excellent break-up scenes in my mind but nothing is working. Every scenario ends with me having a broken heart and Mick being an ice-cold d-bag. I can’t stand not knowing what’s happening to my life as it unfolds behind my back.It only takes me thirty minutes to get dressed and made up, ready to break some hearts on the dance floor. I hate games. Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat.My dad is dead asleep, exhausted from taking care of my mom and Jersey, so I leave a note on the kitchen counter in the house we’re renting and take off. I’m at the club in less than a half hour, walking through the door like I own the place. That’s right, y’all. I got my butt lifters on. Gravity cannot touch my jiggly parts tonight.The beat is familiar. This DJ Twatmonster or whatever her name is sucks.She just plays the same crap over and over and hopes nobody notices. Well, guess what cooter-breath! I noticed!I scan the dance floor, the bar, and the empty DJ booth, but