Mad Atoms

I'm the whitest chick you'll ever meet, in LA anyway. My parents are British, I went to Vassar, and in painting class I used up all the titanium white doing my self-portrait. So, needless to say, I've never really been called "shorty" before. But the other night I got to go to my first black dance club since that one awkward night back in high school. I was excited to be "up in da club," even though I seemed to be the only person who noticed (or cared) that they played M.I.A'.s "Paper Planes" twice in one thirty-five minute time span.

At first I was worried they would realize I wasn't black and ask me to leave. But I soon realized that nobody even noticed I was there. It was seriously like I didn't exist. I began to think maybe they thought I was a ghost, but then I spotted a few other palefaces getting down on the dance floor, and I began to take it personally.

I switched from thinking my butt was too big to being embarrassed that it was too small. My self-esteem, already low thanks to my long stretch of boyfriendlessness and my sad excuse for a career, started to hover around zero as I looked around at all the people dancing and having a good time.

My friend showed no signs of wanting to leave, so I decided to take the plunge and hit the dance floor myself. When I’m not falling over, I’m actually a pretty good dancer, and I had barely started to shake my tiny white booty before some cute black guy walked past me and nodded. I nodded back and he stopped, looked me up and down and said " what’s up, shorty."

I had to admit, it made my night. Not even my friend embarrassing herself by hitting on the bouncer and then puking on some girl’s shoes in the bathroom could ruin the evening after that.