This post contains what some might consider "a lot" of swear words.
You have been warned.Last November, on the day before Thanksgiving, I think, I attended The Second Longest Concert of All Time with Jason, and some other people whom I don't remember. It is only the second longest if Woodstock is actually categorized as a concert, and not a giant-unclean-sex-and-drug-festival-with-some-music-sometimes.
What I am trying to say is that this concert was really fucking long.
Now, the band who was supposed to headline, I guess, was Mayday Parade. I love Mayday Parade in that I can listen to their songs only sometimes, but when I do it is a wonderful experience, and I love it (Excluding "Black Cat," because no one knows what the hell he's talking about). The other headlining, I guess, band was Breathe Carolina. I love Breathe Carolina in that I can listen to them sometimes, but only when I feel like listening to music that I should dance to, but of course don't, because I don't dance.
So anyway, both of these bands were headlining (I guess) because they merged two tours. That is right. They took two perfectly normal-length concerts, and they put them together. I did not know this. On the website for the venue, where I bought the ticket, it only listed seven-or-so bands. Not thirteen. I think they did this on purpose, because once you enter the venue, you can't leave and come back. You have to freaking stay there, and eat their seven-dollar chicken fingers, or five-dollar slice of pizza if you don't want to starve. And you have to listen to the terrible bands targeted toward fourteen-year-olds if you want to get to the "headlining" bands.
Jason and I left my mom's house at about 2 PM because the life-sucking music festival began at 3 PM, and I have to be on time wherever I go. Also, I didn't know they were going to trap me for seven and a half hours. I was trying to get Jason to hurry up, saying we couldn't be late! because what if a good band plays, and we miss it? And what if they won't let us get in after the concert starts (I didn't understand anything at all, I guess), and what if they yell at us for being late? My fear of authority and whining powers convinced Jason to leave earlier than anyone ever should to attend such an event.
On the way there, it started to rain. I was afraid we'd die because some little asshole threw a water balloon at my windshield once, for absolutely no reason, and the left wiper broke and barely worked at all for over a year. So Jason, the driver, could barely see, and I could barely see, and my bladder was quickly filling up because I probably drank eighty-five cups of coffee that morning, and seventeen glasses of water, and all I could think was that if we got into a wreck, where the hell would I pee?
We got there, though, and I was excited to finally urinate.
We started up the parking lot, in the rain, toward the restrooms outside the venue. I was sort of running, because I had to pee so badly, and sort of walking, because it was raining and if I slipped and broke myself I definitely wouldn't be able to pee. However! We were stopped, by some poor soul trying to sell us his band's CD and merchandise. Jason, being the kind, patient person that he is, stopped to speak with this unforunately-dressed young man. I, on the other hand, told him "I HAVE TO PEE," and hurried on.
Once inside, we literally just missed one of the only three acceptable bands that played that night. And it was the Free Credit Score band. I shit you not.
We met up with the others and went up stairs to where all the merchandise for the bands was being sold.
I was scared. Why were there so many booths? And better yet... why were there so many twelve year old girls? And why were they with their parents? And oh, God, is that old man with his arm around that little girl's waist her father?
Me: I hate it here!
Jason: What?
Me: I want to leave! Can we go downstairs?
Jason: I want to hang out with [other people that were there].
Me: *whine a lot*
Eventually, I pouted enough to make Jason go downstairs with me just so I'd shut up. We found ourselves a nice little seat on the edge of some raised-floor (I know of no other way to describe it), and listened to whichever terrible band was currently playing. I'm not sure who it was, so I will give the general description of practically every band that played that night: Really big poop that makes you want to curl up in a ball and cry.
To pass the time, I complained and made weird noises to entertain myself.
Oh my God, why did we get here so early? I hate everything in the whole entire world.
Why are there two tour posters on the wall?
Will you go ask that man in that booth thingey for the set list pleeeeease? Uuuuggghhh.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Buuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
OH SWEET JESUS, THEY MERGED TWO TOURS? WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT, WHY? I HATE EVERYONE.
Three or so hours in, Hey Monday started to play. I'd heard of them, but up to that moment, I had no idea how much I'd grow to hate them.
The songs are repetitive, the girl wears way too short skirts, and thirteen-year-olds love them so much that they feel they have to scream as loud of their pre-pubescent lungs allow.
The children in the "pit" did their version of moshing, which is nudging each other every so gently, and jumping occasionally.
After Hey Monday did their rendition of Jay Sean's Down (I actually prefer the original. That is how bad it was), some person from some other band announced that it was the girl from Hey Monday's mom's birthday! And she was THERE, WOW. IN THE BALCONY. HEY, SPOTLIGHT GUY, PUT THE SPOTLIGHT ON HER, LOL. HEY EVERYONE, TELL HER HAPPY BIRTHDAY! LOL I BET YOU'RE SO EMBARRASSED, MRS HEY MONDAY LADY.
All the middle schoolers yelled "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
But I didn't.
Instead I muttered "Why didn't you give birth to a person who can sing better, and doesn't feel like she has to jump around all the fucking time? HUH? WHY?"
Of course she didn't answer. She was too busy being overwhelmed by all the loud noises and bright lights in her stupid face that I resented so very much.
I wanted to die, and I said so, about every fifteen minutes.
I wanted to leave, but I was trapped. If I left, there was no coming back, and the only two bands I cared about weren't playing for another four hours. I didn't know this, though, so my night was filled with hoping that one of them would be next, only to be crushed emotionally when I saw another band like The Ready Set come on stage.
I wanted food, but I wasn't going to pay the ridiculous prices for three chicken fingers, when Christmas was coming up, and I'm in college and unemployed, so I wasn't in any position to go around spending seven dollars on a tiny amount of food, when for all I knew, I was going to get to leave, and therefore eat reasonably priced food soon.
So I sat. I didn't kill myself, I didn't leave, and I didn't eat. I sat.
Three and a half hours later, Breathe Carolina was all set up and ready. It was so exciting, mostly because I knew the thoughts of suicide would stop for at least half an hour.
Jason wanted to mosh, or "mosh," depending on how much dying you believe ought to happen in a mosh pit. But I wanted to stand somewhere in the back and maybe sway to the music, or something a little less dangerous.
Jason: Well, I'm leaving. You can stay here or come up with me.
Me: But I don't want to die!
Jason: You won't die. And I want to enjoy the music, so I'm not staying back here. They're one of my favorite bands, and you know I like moshing.
Me: Moshing is stupid, and I will too die.
But he left me, abandoned in the back of a mosh pit, all by myself.
I stood next to some guy who looked like he wouldn't let me be crushed by falling fat men, and stood awkwardly. I couldn't even enjoy the music because I felt like everyone was judging me for being alone and --
OH GOD, I WAS ALMOST CRUSHED.
Luckily, I chose who to stand next to wisely, because he pushed the big fat man away, and I was not dead.
(I realize the irony in not wanting to die, when it was only roughly half an hour earlier that I was figuring out how to kill myself using only the hoodie I was wearing, the banister behind me, and my flip flops.)
I decided that if I wanted to stop feeling awkward, and actually listen to the music, I was going to have to somehow get Jason to stand with me.
I texted him, and convinced him that he would be able to kind of dance, sort of, and maybe sway to the music if he stood with me. Also, we could stand on the edge of the "mosh pit," that way he could still feel the violent energy.
We stood on the outskirts of the loud, thrusting circle of testosterone, and I buried my face in Jason's shirt for protection.
A shoe hit me on the head.
Me: A fucking shoe just him me on the head!
Jason: Awww *sad face*
Me: Why is this fun? Do you like being hit in the head with things?
Jason: That doesn't normally happen...
Some random girl stand next to us (to her friends): Oh my Gaaawd, I can't find my BlackBerry! waaaah
Me (to Jason): How do you lose a phone?
Jason: lololol
Me: If someone gets crowd-surfed over me, I swear to God I'm going to punch him in the fucking balls.
And I did just that. Not even five minutes later, some kid, who was probably only two or so people behind us, expected me to help lift him over the crowd, and to wherever people expect to go when doing that.
By the way, that reminds me of the time at Day Glow, when some stranger on ecstasy kept pushing his way through the crowd, and I told Jason "If he pushes me again, I swear to God I'm going to fucking pinch him," and I did just that. He looked around, confused, but then got over it because he was "On fucking e, maaaan!"
The next band was apparently the band of the former lead-singer of Mayday Parade. That's all fine and dandy, but I didn't care at all, because was he going to sing "You Be The Anchor The Keeps My Feet On The Ground, I'll Be The Wings That Keep Your Heart In The Crowd?" No. He wasn't. So as far as I was concerned, I wanted to kill myself.
I endured six hours of mediocre "music," getting hit in the head with a shoe, almost starving to death, having my hand so close to some kid's balls that I was actually able to punch them, seeing a man be uncomfortably close to who was probably his daughter, and seeing at least twenty cougars.
I was ready for some fucking Mayday Parade.
They got on stage, and the lead singer guy came out with his weird body-suit, which just makes him look like Slender Man, holding an umbrella. Then some "poetic" thing was read out to us, and he look off that weird mask thing and was like "LOL U GUYZ READY FOR SOME MAYDAY PARADE? U GUYZ ARE SO PATIENT." And I said "YOU BETTER PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC BEFORE I KILL MYSELF, AND YOU GET BAD PUBLICITY FOR HAVING A GIRL KILL HERSELF AT YOUR CONCERT."
And then they played "Jamie All Over," because why wouldn't they play the song people quote all the time, and sing randomly, and annoy everyone with?
But whatever, as long as I wasn't watching emo Justin Bieber sing some song about woah-oh-oh-oh-ohhh-oh-oh-oh, I was good. Plus that song's fun to sing along to. And he's good at drowning at the sound of twelve-year-olds.
Then I said to Jaosn, "I wonder if they're going to play Black Cat? I hope they don't, because it makes no sense." And Jason said "I bet they will."
And then Mr. Mayday Parade said "Here's a song about a black cat!" and I said "He described it like that because he doesn't even know what it's about."
And I waited, impatiently, for them to play "You Be The Anchor..." because that is one of my favorite songs of all time, and I won't ever be able to see The Beatles perform, so I have no chance of hearing my favorite song live.
And guess what? It was the last song they played. The last song. So I couldn't even leave before everyone else did, and run to the potty like I do for everything.
It was okay, though, because I waited seven and a half freaking hours to hear that song, and I wasn't going to get all upset about my bladder when I was singing about sand castles falling, and cigarette ashes, and stuff. I just wasn't. I was going to enjoy that three minutes, and it was going to be wonderful.
And it was. It was three of the most amazing minutes of my whole life, and let me tell you, it was not worth seven and a half hours. And I would not do it again.
Sorry, Mayday Parade.
At 11 PM, we left that cursed venue, and I felt a lot less depressed, having heard one of my favorite songs of all time.
Jason and I then drove to Saint Cloud, where we met people I actually remember at ihop, and I got a BLT that was awesome at the time, but turned out to be evil because I got food poisoning, and had to write a final research paper on the freaking mummification process, because that was the easiest thing I could think of while I was passing the weight of my entire body through my butt (ha, I bet that made you uncomfortable because you didn't know girls pooped ever) and crying.
And I got a 98% on that paper. But that is a story for another time!
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