The square room in which I currently stand technically isn't very small. It would take me about two minutes to walk from the north wall to the south wall if, by some miracle, there were no people in my way. However, this isn't the case. There are hundreds of thousands of people here today, though they aren't all in this one room. There are about a thousand people here, from all walks of life. Young women in tight, cheap bustiers, grinning from ear to ear at the photographers. Their makeup caked faces will later be highlighted and smoothed out by means of Photoshop, and then plastered all over the Internet. Little boys hide behind their fathers legs, bashful in front of Superman (who they never thought they'd meet). Middle aged men and women alike drag heavy skirts and stiff shirt coats adorned with gold gears and silver keys. The unmistakable clanking of steampunk jewelry follows them everywhere they go.

Men and women, children and elders. Some people are here for movies, some for games. Others for, comics, or manga, or anime. Trekkies and Furries rub elbows with Potter-Heads and Sith Lords. Daenarys Targarian poses fiercely for a photo with Ciel Phantomhive, who turns his nose up to her Dothraki garb.

The air reeks of sweat and body odor. Heavy costumes and anticipation inspire perspiration in those who are in line to meet their idolized celebrities. A Cat Woman lookalike holds a fussy child in a Batman onesie. It is obvious that he couldn't care less that his mother has been standing in line for hours on end, just to get Adam West's autograph. It it equally obvious that she doesn't care that he has been practically starving since she stepped in between the red velvet ropes that herded her, along with hundreds of others, into a neat, single file line.

Humidity is abundant in the Vender's Hall, one persons CO2 is no different than another's, the only thing that matters is that their makeup doesn't run. The Joker dabs helplessly at his sweaty white face, hoping he can break character long enough to make it to the costume repair shop in the building across the street. The street is flooded with superheroes and Jedi, Pokémon and Daeleks. All traffic has been routed around and away from the convention centers. People have fled from their office buildings and stayed home for the weekend, not wanting to catch whatever bug is causing these people to spend hundreds of dollars on fancy clothes that are far too dense to be wearing in June in Phoenix.

The tall, gleaming buildings stared down accusingly at everyone who approached their mouths. Four floors open to the public in each building, though each floor is more empty than the last. The upper floors have so few people that you can smell the carpet shampoo and feel the air conditioning. In the lower levels, everyone is so close to one another that the AC is practically nonexistent.

The heat hardly bothers me. I'm wearing a scratchy red and black tutu, one that is so short that I'm required to wear tight black spanx to keep myself modest. The silk wrapped elastic digs itself into my hips, but I don't care. I'm too wrapped up in my character. Dip-dyed pigtails and a half red, half black bustier. Eyeliner to the heavens and eyelashes that could kick up a stiff wind. The pinching of my top doesn't bother me, neither does the way my fishnets stick to my thigh. My only grievance, is my boots.  The heel on them isn't all that tall, however there is no support for the balls of my feet and after two straight days of standing and skipping on the hard concrete floors of the Vender's Hall, my feet begin to hurt.

Every step I take is like a thumb on a bruise. A sharp nagging pain right below my toes, and a dull whisper of pain throughout the rest of my body. But it doesn't matter. Harley Quinn doesn't wear tennis shoes, so neither do I. My psychotic smile stays plastered on my lips and my skipping never slows.

The rhythmic clacking of my heels sounds behind me as I strut from booth to booth, my eyes drifting over artwork and jewelry, all dreadfully overpriced. A postcard of Alice for three dollars, a printout of Master Chief for twenty five. Money leaves my hand as the artist happily signs my newly purchased posters. I smile to the man drawing baby Toothless and avoid the eyes of the man drawing a tasteless, nude, Princess Bubblegum. 1-UP earrings slip themselves into my bag as twenty dollars slips into their cash box. My wallet becomes lighter and my bag heavier with every booth I pass.

The sun sets in the sky and everyone has began moving from the closing convention center into the street and surrounding hotels. Fliers litter the street and the fresh air is wrapping itself around me in a cool embrace. I fall into a hot metal chair sitting outside the first door and watch everyone limp out, mentally preparing themselves, same as me, for tomorrow.