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When she died, Miruna (Mona) was 27 and not sure she ever had an orgasm. Her boyfriend drove to the seaside some 200 km/ hour in an old Mercedes, until the tire exploded and four lives found themselves in the air. Only Miruna's had enough wings to reach the sky; the others returned to Earth severely damaged. Miruna had heart, balls, and a closed coffin.

Prior to that unfortunate guy of less functional legs now, she used to date Rhadoo. When he left Club A, he proposed Mircea Oculeanu to follow into his steps. Mircea had been Miruna's former husband and my friend since working together in the radio. Faced with a live club challenge, Mircea called me onboard for some late teenage flavour and together we embarked for a long series of alternative Thursdays. We later had all-hits Fridays and Saturdays, too. I was officially known as The Chief, and unofficially as Mouthy Bitch for negotiating fees with the manager and songs with the crowd—avoiding noisy Rammstein and telenovela Latin no matter the drinks and bribes we were given. I parted ways with Mircea one year after or so.

Years passed and I moved into house, techno, and chill. I was given a new chance to play at the birthday party of Eunice and friend, when I strangely managed to please both by mixing commercial house and easy listening Latin against all my wits. I then became more or less a regular of Exit, both for private and public nights; I was once forced to play manele and once fought a client over best feminine jazz voices; I had more chill than thought possible and dived into breaks and d&b whenever allowed.

I began calling myself Ms Lolita, fell in love with all things electro and Latin, wore short pink dresses and high heels and offered pink candies with my soulful tracks—all that Latin you don't hear on radio and TV but accidentally. I was a very amateur DJ, almost non-technical, yet a crowd-slut: I'd do anything to see you sweat and smile on that floor because, if you do, I get goosebumps, especially before and after doing the NYE countdown. Even that phase passed, with all my dozen remixes of now back-in-fashion Mas Que Nada and the Brazilian music party that rocked the socks off Brazilians in town one hot summer night two years ago.

If I were playing anywhere but in my studio tonight, this would go out to you, Miruna, for your wasted beauty, for the night you gave me your long shirt to cover my cracked pants and we danced till the morning making fun of those fat Italians at the Camel party by the lakeside, and for all the beers and laughs and smokes we had no more; you could have stayed the only female friend under my skin: on and on, RZA's Esta bueno, por que esta es La Rhumba/ Ven baila conmigo en esta Rhumba. Drawing found here.