Another afternoon breakfast of mysterious Vietnamese insta-noodle. It’s bland, uninteresting, and the only english on the entire bright packet is the word “chicken”, but I’m following the principle of It’s Good Because It’s Food, (ostensibly), similar to the late-night restaurant rule of It’s Good Because It’s Open. When I was little, I ate them dry as a treat, enjoying the novel way they crunched and then dissolved between my teeth. Now, every time I open one, slitting the brittle white plastic package with a fingernail, fishing out the spice pouches, I remember apocryphal stories about poor college students afflicted with scurvy or perishing of malnutrition after relying on them too long.
I cocooned exhausted into bed last night without taking out the rugged froth of fancy curls the hair-dresser on set perched on top of my head and didn’t notice until this morning when I tried to run my fingers through them. Yesterday was a tiring day. My first prom and it was twelve hours long. The whole production looked amazing, though. Two hundred actors as teenagers, some pretending, some not, dolled to the tens in a gymnasium decorated by Disney into an incredibly expensive high school prom. The lighting really made it, like a favourite movie seen on repeat, I couldn’t get tired of the clever colours. The whole thing was fantastic. I loved the shifting star-like spangles that warmly painted our strange, sequined velvet party people who sat down in silk, taffeta, and tuxedo clumps every chance they got. It had the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream.
