Entry number 3.
The shitty wine makes me feel warm and boundless, not tired. The flames under my feet on the dance floor mimic the burning butt of the cigarette I smoke outside. And I know everyone is watching me when I dance.
I love the moment when I pull my gay friend Tyler into me and his head rolls back, shouting, “You’re so dom, I LOVE IT!” before kissing me straight on the mouth. My lips are parted because I’m breathing hard.
A girl from a neighboring college sings into something that resembles a white carrot. I will spend the uber ride home contemplating the name of that mystery vegetable with two strangers and a lover.
My dress is damp, my feet are sticky and my eyes are dripping black.
The youthfulness of it all is beautiful in a way I used to think melancholy is beautiful — as if we were all experiencing nostalgia as the events unfolded around us.