I had every intention of going home last night, really I did. When I finished work, I planned to walk over to the library, return a couple of books, and continue on to the bus that would take me back to my sofa.
This is not what happened. Instead, I found myself, inexplicably, at the grad pub, where Setare plied me with an absurd number of free drinks before whisking me by taxi to the Jupiter Room.
Thanks, Setare. I owe you a debilitating hangover. On your period.
While at the club, I realized that I never want to hear another eighties song again as long as I live. Not “Tainted Love,” not “I’ll Melt With You,” and certainly not “99 Luftballons.” So sick am I of the eighties that I don’t even want to hear New Order, nor any song recorded by Prince during that decade.
Further, I don’t ever want to see gaggles of fresh-faced twenty-somethings dancing ironically to eighties songs again—or, more accurately, trying to dance to eighties songs, which have all the rhythmic urgency of a leaking faucet. Plop, plop. Shake that thing! Plop.
Therefore, I am declaring an emergency moratorium on eighties music, which will be strictly enforced until we reach the eighth decade of the current century. If, by that time, anyone still feels an insatiable need to dance ironically to INXS, then they will be free to do so. But not a minute before.