Camus says we're incapable of suffering for a long time, or being happy for a long time, but

we're happy. We're early Beatles, runner's high, chocolate egg cream happy. We're 4th of July weekend, Bernie Williams, Monday crossword puzzle happy. We're sunshine after storm, we're using the royal "we." Our face muscles hurt from holding in an ear to ear grin. We look like idiots, but we're not ignorant. We're smiling at strangers, swinging from cherry boughs like Look Homeward, Angel, gasping in the stairwell happy. Stupid with joy, we've forgotten why melancholy is more attractive. We're not in the mood for drama. We like getting caught in sudden rain storms. We think taking four finals could be fun. We're unhipster, crossing our fingers, drumming on railings. We're so happy, we have nothing interesting to say.

Champagne Hangover

I don't have one but I'm betting most people who were at Pump and Slipper do. I left after 5 am when the sky was getting light underneath the rain. Aaron drove me home, the car cutting up spray along every slow, rain-laden street. This afternoon ran through thick water-droplets, returning to the Hall to hole up in the belly of the building. When I opened the door, there was David dazed on a couch in the foyer. Reassembled completely in cumberbund, bow tie and tuxedo coat. Faded elegance of yesterday night. All accoutrements of dress-up elegance had been lost in afterparty in the crypt. When everyone else went home the swing band's best of the 20s through 40s were replaced of the hits of the 80s and 90s. Now I'm trying to take several centuries to write a simple Milton essay. Working through the night, I hope tomorrow never catches up with me.