I’m home.

Christen and I were talking the whole time about how impossible it would be to record all of the incredible things that happened on this trip. And yes, in a way it is impossible. You can’t re-create or in any way document those conversations that happen sometime after 5 a.m. when you can’t remember the last time you’ve slept. Those times when flying by wind farms, orchards, rest stops, sunrises, sunsets, blasting Interpol, more Interpol, then Peaches, Trent, only Queens of the Stone Age must be played when in Los Angeles… bright, sticky memories of the blinding sun… thousands out on a massive field… five bands playing simultaneously…is it Thursday? Saturday? Sunday?, buy more $3 gatorate… rolling down the windows, more sunblock, more sunblock.

I always say that a road trip is the best way to know whether you are destined to be friends with somebody. And the longer the road trip, the better. We left at midnight on Thursday and didn’t get back until Sunday morning. We maybe slept 10 hours the whole time, yet we didn’t argue even once. We just had more and more fun…no matter the bad food, the extreme sleep deprivation… our Starbucks in Lost Hills, phones threatening to die the whole time… dealing power from whatever outlets we could… the car broke down but we got it fixed, stayed at the house of this random girl we met at the gas station… Christen’s boyfriend Dan came up from San Diego and helped us so much… hundred-degree weather…driving through Indio, Cathedral City, more desert, Palm Springs, L.A., Lost Hills, the endless nothing of I-5, Mulholland Drive…

It would take weeks to write it all down.

We saw Interpol, Bjork, and Peaches…not to mention all the thousands of hot, trendy people. Every moment of this trip seemed like a surreal dream…but through it all, we persevered. After this epic adventure, I sit here and stare at my ticket stub on my desk.

It’s like the last scene of a movie where the characters can’t believe that everything happened, but it did. I slept all day today… 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. I had a bunch of messages, and tried to call everyone back when I woke up. I wasn’t able to get ahold of Patrick pretty much the whole time I was down there, but we communicated via voicemails. I was so out of it the whole time, I probably wouldn’t have made that great of a conversationalist.

I’ve had so many epiphanies… and listened to so much Interpol that I can even believe that I exist anymore. I need to sit down and make a bunch of notes and then try it to write about this. I could seriously write a novel about it.