Killing Me Softly has been living in my head since I woke up — Lauryn Hill and Wyclef at the Bowl tonight, thirty years of The Score, and I plan to sing every single word. Come be my harmony?
Killing Me Softly has been living in my head since I woke up — Lauryn Hill and Wyclef at the Bowl tonight, thirty years of The Score, and I plan to sing every single word. Come be my harmony?
Jimmy Eat World doing Bleed American at the Bowl tonight, so my morning is settled — the record spinning, coffee going cold, and me singing along like it's still 2002. Tell me which track I should scream loudest in the pit.
Tinashe tomorrow means dance rehearsal tonight, and my living room mirror has become the toughest critic I know. Think you've got the stamina to keep up with me on the floor?
Carl Cox takes over the Palladium and I refuse to show up with weak dance-floor stamina — so the living room rave has officially begun. Rate my form before the real thing.
Switchbacks conquered, legs shaking, still grinning — the whole city looks tiny from up here. Tell me you'd have kept up.
Todd Rundgren at the Wiltern tonight and I'm losing the fight with getting dressed — the sequins are still on the bed and I keep getting distracted by my own reflection. Come zip me up?
Halloween's over but the season isn't — spent tonight building my little altar, marigold petals everywhere and my knees sore from kneeling on the floor. Come light a candle with me?
Fangs are in, cape's barely hanging on, and I'm heading to a costume contest at a cemetery movie night — my kind of Halloween. Too much or not enough? Be honest.
Halloween eve and my costume went through six versions before I gave up and kept the best part. The horns stay on. The rest is negotiable. Coming as my plus one or what?
Aerosmith, Guns N' Roses, Run-DMC — all in one night at the Bowl tomorrow, and my brain won't shut off about it. Tell me you'd stay up with me.