Locked in

July 28, 2001

i just got up a half hour ago — went to bed at 9 and slept six hours straight. i’d been up all night doing not what you are thinking and i am wishing. no. i was up singing karaoke and shuffling cards and flinging spoons and eating red vines and gulping mountain dew and trying my hardest not to fall asleep to kirsten dunst’s whiney voice. with high school kids. who make me feel 80 because they don’t know who james brown is or what the breakfast club is.

at 6-something a.m., i was near-comatose on someone else’s sleeping bag on the floor and i heard the door open and the footsteps scurry out and i don’t know how but i got the energy to stand up and follow them. the air felt good, i’ll admit. it was smelly in there, i know. we were all a little stir-crazy, but i made them come back inside, anyway.

the girls were pouty and the boys were pissy with me, but i didn’t care.

“i am not there to be their best friend,” i grumbled to julie.

“were we like that when we were their age?”

“i hope not, but probably.”


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