It’s the middle of the week and I’m still suffering from severe post-Pride depression.

I went to the Pride parade last Sunday. I usually try to go. Other cities may have bigger gay pride celebrations, but the Portland one is always such a fun party.

After a while, watching the parade really makes me feel like I’ve landed in a magical alternate universe, full of color and glitter and dance. Rainbows are everywhere. There’s a giant disco burrito rolling down the street. Happy people are wearing shiny unicorn horns and fluffy raccoon tails, and happy dogs are wearing pink tutus. I end up cheering at everyone and everything, even the guy selling balloons.

And then it all ends, and it’s such a coming down. At first it’s not so bad, as I leave the waterfront with a crowd of straggler unicorns and other partiers. But then the celebration scatters, and it hits me. I’m back in the mundane world. It looks dull and drab. Instead of fantastic drag queens, it’s the usual assortment of families in Wal Mart-style T-shirts and flip flops, and drunken dudebros with their pants sliding down to their knees.

Yes, I’ve officially exited Wonderland and find that I’ve returned to my greyish-brown cubicle existence.

But hey, I guess that’s what makes any celebration, whether it’s Pride or Christmas, special–the fact that it only happens once a year. Wouldn’t be the same if I felt that way all the time. I’m sure that next June, Santa will bring me an even bigger and better parade–right?

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