You rest your tiny head on your pillow.

I had a dream last night that Trace Cyrus was my boyfriend. I just had to Google how old he was so I didn't feel as horrible about it as I did when I woke up this morning. (Googling also led me to discover this and this. He goes by Ashland High now? Oh god, it's just like Simon Rex's wack-ass makeover as Dirt Nasty and I want someone to make it stop.)

Anyway, in my dream, he was setting up for a show (as if he ever loaded and set up his own gear) and he asked to borrow a cable. I said, "babe, do you need an instrument cable or an XLR?" He bent over behind his amp and embarrassingly whispered, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

Dare I say that's sort of a dreamy statement? I dunno. Maybe in my dreams, I just like 'em real dumb. Whatever, now I'm watching all of his videos and following him on Twitter and completely perplexed by my own behavior. All I know is that none of this shit is as good as "Kelsey." Yet. 

In completely related news, I found this MT t-shirt when I was cleaning out my mom's house the other day. I must have purchased this when I reviewed Metro Station's show in Denver at the Gothic in 2008... or when I saw them again in 2009. Both times, terrible. But I just don't seem to care. I still love the band's first and only full-length record because it sounds like the teenager I wasn't capable of being -- because it wasn't 2007 when I was 17. It was 1997.