Midnights, March: 18

Nope. I don't—I can't do it. I am too damn tired today. I can't move my brain. I remember earlier tonight thinking, “Such-and-such might be a lovely thing to write about tonight.” But now it’s gone. And good riddance, probably.

[Ed. from next morning: I remember what it was! I was reminded after seeing a video I can only describe as Jig-ercize called Jig Don’t Jog (“Get fit the Irish way!”). But it is not a lovely thing.

In my sixth-grade class, kids could choose either to play an instrument, and leave class for band practice one afternoon a week, or stay for gen-pop music class with the frizzy-haired music teacher whose name I cannot recall. I opted to stay. Because band kids are a buncha nerds.

That is, except for St. Patrick’s Day, when the TURNS TABLED. In honor of the holiday, the music teacher played this Irish song over and over on her boombox and made us all learn a little jig. I’m not sure if it was even a real Irish dance; it seemed like maybe a regular line dance with more bouncing. Then, when the band kids came back in, she made us perform the dance for the whole class.

Nothing—nothing—is more humiliating in life than being laughed at by the band kids.]