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A taste of the 1980s, a glimpse of that world when I’ve yet existed. Ringo Starr and Dennis Quid in that film Caveman, composed entirely by primitive cavemen-speak, deep grunts, and clay models of the T-Rex and grotesque oversized monsters. The strikingly cute features and blonde wavy hair of Dennis Quid and the persuasive hotness and cleavage of Barbara Bach immortalised in that 1981 movie. They’ve changed. They’ve grown old. Their skin now sags and tainted with time, yet there was a time when they were beautiful.

This wave of complacency just washed over me, soaking me in that sort of retro, hippy euphoria of the past. And the trailer for that film, good lord, amused me to no end. It was completely different than the trailers of the current, both unique respectively.

And there was an air of familiarity as I finished traipsing through the Caveman – but why? Was I reborn from the 80s?

Driving home alone at 11pm was the best movie of my life. It has all the sights – the red lights of the cars trailing around me as they passed, the warm tungsten flavour of the street lamps, the overhanging nearly full moon on the night sky – and sounds, I drank greedily my favourite songs leaking from my iPod. I was on a nirvana of complacency – my ‘joy’, for the lack of a better word, was on a perfect balance that never really peaked excessively nor dropped.

Beyonce’s If I Were a Boy. Boys Like Girls’ Thunder. Jason Mraz’s I’m Yours. Coldplay’s Viva La Vida. Stephanie Sun’s cover of Hey Jude. Five for Fighting’s Superman.

The best soundtrack of tonight.

I bopped my head around, snapping my fingers as I sang without a care to the world within the confines of my car. I was dancing in the car. I was enjoying a quality alone time by myself as I navigated my way back home. I was happy. I was complacent. I was happily complacent. I was complacent from Caveman.