Unreal Sunday

But tonight we feel like stars
We’ll play our air guitars
Cause we’re eighteen
It’s a perfect night
To sing our prom theme

-- "Prom Theme," Fountains of Wayne

As you can tell from the above quote, even though it is now almost 6 AM on a Monday morning, I've still got the non-drinker's emotional equivalent of a hangover, caused by last Saturday's Prom Night. Except for the bit about being eighteen, those lines are pretty appropriate (and you know -- maybe because of all the 80s nostalgia, maybe because of the excellent company I was with -- this was one of those times I just completely forgot what my age is. I might as well have been eighteen).

Just finished rewriting yesterday's blog entry to make it suitable for our impressionable PULP readers. I actually wish I could make it longer -- there are so many details I want to mention, like the blinking-lights tiara worn by that member of Death by Tampon, or Ebe Dancel sliding between the legs of Imago's guitarist (almost as obscene as it sounds) -- but I'm already over 600 words. ;p

Felt slightly unreal all of Sunday. Drifted. Slept little snatches of sleep. Not a bad thing, really. Watched a DVD of Tears for Fears videos, which sank me even deeper into intense description-dodging high school feelings, a brief resurgence of that odd fleeting sense that one is both immortal and incredibly fragile. So many trivial things in one's past can still affect one so much -- the memory of a childhood car ride, a sunset you observed while sitting on a stone bench beside your high school football field. What matters? It's all just life.

Will probably feel more solid tomorrow -- I mean, later. But for now, words fail me.

And the lovely mirrorball reflected back them all
Every triumph, every fight, under disco light.

-- "Mirrorball," Everything but the Girl