This Sunday I went to a Gay Pride Weekend after-after party that started at 5 a.m. 

I however, being on a cocktail of antibiotics and basic humanity, arrived quite soberly at 6:00 a.m. Just like a normal human being would. 

Have you ever felt like you were trapped in a Darren Aronofsky film? You know, a moment in life that felt like an award winning cinematic nightmare? I have and it's called a Gay Pride after-after party. 

I've lived in New York City for nearly two years now, and it wasn't until I arrived at the club that the phrase "the city that never sleeps" actually meant something to me. I can confirm that the city does in fact not sleep and in this case the city was a clot of shirtless zombies in an underground club at 6:05 in the morning. 

At 6:15 the dance floor was speckled with a few wilted party goers who without a doubt could not stop and would not stop. They were the leftover gay priests of Dionysus, throwing themselves into a half-eager frenzy of pride, endless cans of energy drinks and redundant house music. 

Watching the dancers became a game of "Guess Who" for me, except instead of little characters I was guessing the drugs people were on. 

That dude is coming down from a nice head high, I thought as I watched a man sway side to side like a tired gay tree in a breeze. 

Then as another shirtless man skipped past me like a drowsy 5-year-old I thought, Oh and that dude is for sure on E.

By 6:30 the club had reached sweet-16-birthday-party-in-a-hotel-room crowd levels. My first realization though was that I, in my solid grey V-neck T-shirt and jeans, had never felt more overdressed in my entire life. I should have expected — this being an after after party after all — for all the boys to show up dressed as they were: draped in tank tops, wrapped in crop tops, and boldly donning sassy shirts that snapped things like "you can't sit with us."

By 7:03 I was sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the club sipping from a cup while indie singer Feist chirped through the speakers. 

It was mid-sip that I realized all the men dancing in a basement below me would at some point in the morning wander out into the street to the epicenter of the pride parade — dazed, semi-blind and deaf like newborn polar bear cubs. 

What a wonderful image, I thought to myself as I envisioned, with a smirk, all the men high off energy drinks, secret bumps of coke and sheer force of will, feeling their way through the throngs of Pride Parade watchers.  

What a wonderful image indeed. 

Happy Pride!