You know how you’re supposed to write your dreams down as soon as you wake up, or else you’ll forget them? Well, this is me doing that, because by now I’m not sure what really happened and what my cold-medication-fuelled mind made up. In my dream, aka yesterday, it’s finally the big day: HK’s long-awaited birthday party[1]. I arrive a little late, already slightly tipsy, with a mix of emotions that hasn’t really left me since the pandemic: mild horror at the prospect of social anxiety and tedious small talk, and a tender, joyful anticipation of hugs, laughs, and deep conversations about this never-ending existential crisis we call the 21st century. I step into a damp and animated atmosphere, hang my hat – or maybe my whole head – on a nail[2], and choose which carnival mask to put on. Parties always make me feel like a court jester[3], and you never know which one you’ll get: the truth-teller, the joker, or the sad clown dealing out self-deprecating jokes like playing cards[4]. Then I…