The Afterparty

Katy Perry in impossible clothes, Foo Fighters shaking the O2 in Berlin, Green Day setting the stage on fire—that was the MTV Europe Music Awards last night, and I was in the crowd. The Hoff wandered out and mumbled something weighty into the microphone. Miranda Cosgrove handed an award to Beyoncé, which apparently Kanye West deserved some credit for. The whole thing had this odd momentum where some moments actually landed and others died right in front of you.

The real night started after. Malte and I slipped away to the Universal afterparty, found ourselves in the VIP section, and drank with Sido and Tokio Hotel and whoever was attached to them. We watched Culcha Candela and Jan Delay and Patrice work the dancefloor, and we weren’t bad at it ourselves—dancing, eating pizza at 4 AM, somehow leaving with more than we’d brought. Palina was there too, which I wasn’t upset about.

The whole night was good in that reckless way where you know it’s also destroying you. Around 3 AM I realized something had gone wrong. I’d stopped drinking water or eating real food somewhere after midnight. Just Red Bull and adrenaline and the constant need to move. By the time I was circling those hallways, I was a ferret on coke—all twitch and no judgment—earning looks from bodyguards that made the situation very clear. The energy drink had won.

Now I’m trying to find somewhere quiet to just collapse without the body count. We’ll see how that ends.