The sound of my breathing is overwhelming. People start to mutter in the crowd.

I can’t lose control of the crowd.

I glance around some more.

How long have I been silent?

This is so bad. The muttering turns into noise.

What is wrong with me?

I open my mouth. Come on! Even when I bomb, I bomb speaking! SPEAK.

“Twitter,” my voice cracks.

“We don’t give a shit about Twitter!” someone shouts.

Shut up about fucking Twitter!

“Get off the stage!” someone jeers.

I brace my hands and the mic against my thighs, gasping. Why can’t I breathe? I can save this, if I skip to the next bit. If I can remember anything other than my damn name and the word Twitter!

“You’re not your dad, get off,” someone groans.

I gag as something surges from inside my gut, out my mouth, and all over the front of the stage. Maybe off the stage.

“Something” is the remnants of the pepperoni pizza I had for dinner.

Someone gags in the audience. I look into the spotlight. I can save this. Talk about throw up.

The crowd boos and yells. I stare at them.

There are so many jokes about vomit! Why can’t I think of any?

I hear someone else throw up in the crowd.

Oh god. The manager’s walking out toward me. I stumble awkwardly as he takes my arm and guides me off stage. The crowd cheers as a man with a mop glides into view.

“No!” I jolt upright in bed, panting.

My alarm clock is blaring the Men in Black theme. Bits of my hair are plastered to my cheek. Shit. I run a hand over my face and blow out a hard breath.

I’ve been reliving that disaster in my sleep every night for the past week and it’s fucking horrifying every time. I silence the alarm clock with a slap. Why did I set that again?

I pitch forward as someone pounds on the door.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Up?” Grams shouts.

Double shit. I glance back at the time. Grams wanted to go to brunch; we’re supposed to leave in fifteen minutes.

“Up!” I throw off my sweaty sheets and head for the shower.

I scramble downstairs eighteen minutes later, fully expecting to meet Grams in her car halfway down the driveway. She isn’t one to wait patiently when I’m running late; she’s always gunning the engine so we can take off the second my ass hits the seat. She’s got sass and I love her for it.

I stop short on the bottom step as I catch sight of Grams standing behind the kitchen table.