A dollhouse set ablaze, the fumes of burning paint and polyester choking my lungs until the flames are smothered with shot glasses of tears and piles of broken vanity mirror glass and skittles until a smoldering mass remains, the ashes blown away with a faint sound of wind chimes. This is how it feels to hear Amy Childress read from her photocopied zine on the Bar Deluxe stage on Wednesday night, April 17.