Normally I don't want anything to do with Eurovision Song Contest, but this year I have followed the Swedish Melodifestivalen with excitement. The last time I did so was when my favourite Swedish band The Ark entered and won. It was epic; and this year kind of was too.

The winner this year was Malena Ernman, a beautiful, extremly talented opera singer that contributed with something different. The equally talented Frederik Kempe wrote the song. I had a major crush on this man when he released Vincero in sweden. Fredrik, I still love you! I will actually watch Eurovision this year, only to support Malena and Fredrik.




I don't know how I came to love Opera. It creeped up on me like a wonderful surprise.

The roar of the audience seemed to keep echoing forever. We waited backstage, with smiles etched on our sweaty faces. We were tired, but still had too much energy to relax.

Elliott turned towards me and violently kissed me on the cheek. I hugged him for a while; thinking that all this was because of him. He was tall and had hair dyed so blond it was white. His eyes were a violent shade of green; with cheekbones only god himself could have made.

We were the ultimate songwriters; me and him. I would have married him, if it weren't for the fact that he was gay as a meatball and his husband was waiting by the stage.

Our third member was a quiet girl named Juliet. She was small and petit; almost too skinny. The tabloids screamed “anorexia”; but the fact was she ate more than Elliott and me together. She had learned to laugh the rumours away. The prettiest thing about her was her brown eyes. You could call them whisky-brown, walnut-brown, anything-brown, but absolutely nothing came close to the truth. She was the funniest girl on the planet, once you got to know her.

As we realised the screaming would never end, we took each others hands and ran back out on stage. Juliet hugged my hand before she took her drumsticks and stretched them into the air with a triumphant scream. She took her place behind the drums and started playing. Elliott took his base and microphone, I took my place beside him with my white fender stratocaster.

The sound was deafening, and our blood was boiling. The punk-rock-ish sound we were famous for, made the building vibrate wildly.

“Hello again,” Elliott screamed on the top of his lungs. “We're still Dreamers Disease, and we're still awesome!”