Yes, this really happened.

The sound of African drums fills my head.

Ba dum. Ba dum.

I am on an African safari with my BFF Chelsy Davy and the man I am embroiled in affair with, HRH Prince Harry of Wales.

Drums fill the car, booming on the stereo.

They get louder.

BA DUM.

Louder.

BA DUM, BA DUM.

My eyes flash open.

The safari slips from my mind.

We were going to get married.

I hit snooze.

An hour passes. I get up. Dress myself. Halfheartedly slap some makeup on my face. Grimace into the mirror. Brush only the teeth visible to the world.

I sigh the heaviest of sighs and begin the arduous walk to the F train.

I dodge hipsters and taxi cabs. Today I am yelled at in Pakistani.

I am not popular around these parts.

I get to work. Unload my stuff. Begin to bitch.

I sit down.

I realize I feel different.

Things are...comfortable.

New chair? I check. No.

New sweater? Ah, yes. That must be it. Oh it is so nice, this new sweater. The material is soft. I cannot believe it was only eleven dollars at H and ---

Oh.

OH MY GOD.

I'm not.

I'm not wearing a bra.

I am not wearing a bra to work and...yes, I have seven meetings today.

HOW COULD I FORGET A BRA?

I'm no Olsen twin. Bras are essential to my...look.

Oh god.

No bra.

Seven meetings.

One life (that is taking entirely too long.)