It is hypothetically possible that your intrepid girl reporter ventured from from the Island on Saturday night wearing sneakers, a cheerleading skirt, and a shirt with a goose on it, with a FastPass stuffed in her bra and polka dot socks. It is also possible that in this outlandish costume, she attended a large event, filled with dancers and music and light, and that she danced to the point of physical pain. She danced upstairs and downstairs, in a conga line and alone in the middle of a dance floor. She danced so long and so hard that if her hair hadn’t been moussed down with industrial adhesive, it would have floated around her face like a halo.
Maybe she sat in a seat looking down on a dancefloor filled with people and felt a strange instance of love and affection for them. Maybe she drifted through that massive crowd, forgetting for a night the perils of social anxiety and nervousness.
It is even possible that she accepted a communion from the hand of another, and spent the night entranced, mesmerized, flowing with the music and the light and the people. Perhaps she felt like she was only a small part of a giant organism which moved and breathed together. Perhaps she found herself lying in a pile of people staring up at the sky, hoping that the night would never end.
Maybe the music was loud, and good, and danceable, and she lost herself in the moment of plunging, writhing bodies. Maybe she was thankful.
Maybe on the bus home, she was filled with a sudden sense of crushing lonliness, and when she got home she sat in the tub and stared at the rubber stamped words on her arm, wondering what had really happened.