Some Saturdays ago I stayed up until 5 talking with John. It was me doing dream inventory and John being critical and a good listener. I drew the bomb on the chalkboard and talked about accepting death, he said: “It’s the next thing.” When death is the next thing that’s the tautological truth. I had work the next day but was typically and recklessly happy to lose one sane state of mind for another imbued with the chemicals of friendship.

I was to DJ with Dirt Girl and Snarls at Dick Village (Skylight). The wafts of cologne and top forty drugged us to that dance floor. By the time I was playing my conceptual set of bird calls (a metaphor for gender roles) someone was stabbed on the dance floor and we had to evacuate.

We peed at the Meow Wolf space and waited for John to return and unlock the door to the Rat Bag. Benji and I jumped on the trampoline. Because I am an older sibling I cannot stop myself from bouncing other people higher.

While leaping we wrote Party Girl lyrics, pretending we had access to the alcohol that was locked inside, and pretending our band was more than a concept. We puked on the trampoline and from its plastic-mesh filter withdrew a tray of sparkling cocktails.