I’ve always loved late-night celebrations - friends, drinks, trash talk, that surreal glow under a watchful moon. It’s pure magic… until about 9:15 p.m. That’s when the spell shatters. My body quits. Eyes dull to dishwater, smile painfully polite, brain already curled up on the couch with a book, checked out from the party.
Everyone else is hyped: “Let’s hit the club! Karaoke! That shady taco truck at 2 a.m.!” Meanwhile, I’m thinking: midnight can wait - 9:15 is my curtain call. What’s better than a taco truck? My couch. Sweatpants. Microwave popcorn. Re-reading a good book. That’s a party I can keep going for at least two more hours.
When I stumble home, I’m smirking at the world’s wild pulse, even if I only caught the opening act. Those early hours remind me I’m still alive, still part of this enchanted, beautiful human circus. The rest of the night? Let the die-hards and taco-truck warriors own it. I’m content slipping out early, leaving the encore to the restless.
