Who the Fuck Are You? Hannah Montana!
There’s a party somewhere in a warehouse space, and everyone looks like they’ve walked off a fashion shoot. Catholic school kids in expensive jackets, all acting serious about something. I’m not sure what. There’s an energy to those schools—like everyone there has already figured out how to be an adult.
Anna and her crew have this thing where every night has to be something. Not optional. Not if something happens.
It has to happen. I don’t know where they get the energy. Maybe they’ve just decided sleep isn’t real.
Last night was the Simpsons at her place, sprawled across this loft bed that’s missing half its slats. One bad shift and you’re eating floor. Diet Coke and McDonald’s burgers that taste exactly like every other burger they’ve ever made. But there’s something about McDonald’s at three in the morning—you walk in half-asleep and there’s always someone there who looks genuinely happy to see you. That matters more than the food.
Now I’m heading out for cake and a drink, then back for TV and whatever else the night brings. This is how it’s been—the constant small momentum, the waiting between moments, the sense that something’s always about to happen. Not complaining.