Yeah, well, it was the greatest day ever, so far, I think, in a life of dizzying highs and miserable lows. Our Glee Club played the Hideout Block Party, and we did good, and we felt GOOD, and then some of the lady Glees sang back up for the Frames, and then a lady with some fashion website liked my robot dress, and my friends were there, and my cousin was there. Everything was handed to me on a damn platter, that night, having made cheeky jokes about making it with this specific rock star and he's at the house party. That party, itself, was perfect: everything was too bright, no furniture in a collapsing house, everyone was beer-smeared and awkward. Chick feel down the stairs. I pretended to smoke a crayon. And this is what happens to me at a hype party: I want to be more wholesome. And then when I'm reading and doing dishes and writing letters to friends: I want to go to a loud and messy porch party.

You know what isn't perfect? People in these parts don't enjoy fireworks like they should. So, there. Nothing is perfection, but some days come close. What if Art Brut, standing an watching in gleeful appreciation, had started shooting roman candles off? That would have been something.