Oink!

Someone who has direct contact with Duran Duran just contacted me (I guess ranting does get you somewhere, even if it's nowhere). Sure, I'm a little giddy, but this is 24 years ago all over again. The tears of joy I shed in the smoking room of my girls dormitory, dreaming about how John Taylor actually knew my name, his ear molecules absorbing syllables related to my person, that he might look over the swarm of blondes to contact a chubby jail-bait redhead at a Connecticut prep school. I should have learned a lesson from Carrie.

I'm an adult. Just as brushing past Julia Roberts almost got me killed, I should probably never meet my heroes (even though it's the ONLY thing on my Bucket List).

But I will most definitely see them in concert this fall. Because they got me an A+ on my high school term paper (50 pages), I will buy a seat up close. Let the pigs' blood fall on me!