Shit got really real there at the Andy Warhol museum tonight, and I feel like I need a good, stiff drink. Except I'm leaving with Emma on my arm, and she doesn't drink alcohol. She and the other Cheswicks cried and hugged for awhile. Eventually her dad shook my hand and told me my sculpture was nice. I try to imagine how I'd react if some asshole told me he made art from my naked daughter, and I decide Mr. Chezz isn't all that bad.

Emma wants to walk home, so I take her high ...