I think I inhaled about a quart of chemical fog from the Justice laser show last night. My spine has been compressed by what feels like several inches, and the bottoms of my feet feel pounded flat. My neck hurts from headbanging. My ears rang for hours afterwards.
In other words, mission complete. The mashup of “We Are Your Friends” and Paul Simon’s “Call Me Al” was hilarious gold. The crowd was respectful but not friendly, and uninterested in dancing with me. Their loss. I took out my slight frustration on their insteps and heels, inadvertently.
I ran out of energy around 2 AM. I need to get back to the gym. Beautifully dressed hipsters made me feel fat and uncomfortable.
The people I was looking forward to meeting, other Electro nerds with two left feet, never materialised. It’s quite possible that they don’t exist. My loss, this time. Outside, I bummed a single cigarette off of a hipster, lit it with matches in two tries, and smoked it clumsily. The headrush sucked the warmth from my extremities and left me shivering and sick to my stomach, soaked in sweat on a cold concrete stoop at a quarter to three.
I finished off the other half of my wine when we got back to the house and then stayed up until five on a strange couch, looking at the ceiling. I didn’t find anything, but I came to some conclusions. All of which I’ve now forgotten.