The five people you see at every concert

I spend a lot of time going to shows at some of the old, shitty/awesome venues in Atlanta.

  1. The guy who is drunk, sweating profusely, and seconds away from vomiting on you before the headliner even goes on.
  2. The girl who is having way more fun than you will ever have in your entire life; it’s almost a bummer to stand next to her. Seriously, you’ll be lucky to even approach this level of enthusiasm for the birth of your first child. (Drugs have absolutely nothing to do with it, I’m sure).
  3. The angry girlfriend. She doesn’t want him to have fun without her, but she is hating every second of this. She always has to pee when they play your favorite song and *no*, she cannot go by herself, what if someone tries to molest her in this disgusting place.
  4. The guy who knows every single word to every single song as well as their set list for the show. He is wearing band merch, never without a full PBR, and cannot physically get close enough to the stage. Bonus: He is always at least a foot taller than you.
  5. The girl who is trying way too hard to prove that she is one of the guys. She crowd surfs, pounds cheap beer, and is wearing practically no clothes.

That One Time a Juggalo Hit On Me

If any of you are unfamiliar with the Juggalo species allow me to provide a brief intro:

They are fans of the Insane Clown Posse, or ICP; they drink Faygo by the gallon, love to chant 'FAMILY,' tend to be out of shape, they have a gang-like allegiance to their terrible taste in music; oh, and they paint their faces like a clown. Apparently, as with any organized religion, there are varying degrees of Juggalo commitment. Some insist on wearing the face paint all the time, and others only do it for special occasions.

So the guy started talking to me and he seemed fine enough. He complimented my nose ring and asked about some of my tattoos. I have some script on my collarbone that is difficult to read so, “I really like the tattoo on your chest, what does it say?” seems to be a go-to line. Especially for guys who don't really have any tattoos themselves, it seems. He was new to the area and asked for suggestions on places to get tattooed. Whatever.

I asked what brings him to Georgia, where he doesn't know anyone.

This is where shit starts getting real.

I find out that his parents kicked him out when he turned 18–which was only a year ago–because they didn't agree with the Juggalo lifestyle.

So this dude was forreal about this shit.

He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a (and I use this term loosely) tattoo that looked like it was done in a basement with a homemade gun. Blindfolded. It said 'I.C.P.'

Shocker.

At this point he is already sitting at my table, so I can't just walk away. I asked what he wants to do here and obviously he is a musician. Singer/songwriter, to be exact. I made the mistake of asking him what kind of music he plays.

This motherfucker starts serenading me, at full volume, in the middle of the patio at Starbucks. For anyone who hasn't had the (mis)fortune of this experience, it's weird.

Where are you supposed to look? Just stare at him, or look around at the groups of people he is annoying? At the very least he did have a fairly good voice.

Once he finally stopped long enough for me to interject I clapped exactly four times and acted like that wasn't one of the top ten most embarrassing moments of my life.

At this point it started to become clear that he wasn't going to leave on his own. Pre Juggalo reveal I had told him I wasn't doing anything that day and he was now started trying to suggest places we could go next. I decided I would just get a friend to call with a fake emergency and I could get away without having to be a total bitch to this guy. I decided on a flat tire and excused myself to get a refil inside so I could quickly send a couple SOS texts.

When I ordered my coffee the barista (who had a clear view of my table outside) asked about my new friend, “So, do you know that guy?”

“Oh god, no. I just met him, and he started singing to me and shit…trying to leave right now actually.”

“Ok, I was just curious. He was inside a couple of hours ago and sang to this random girl.”

That son of a bitch.

Things I Have Never Ever Finished in my Life

Any sort of makeup, nail polish, or hair product: I think the mark of a true grownup is someone who runs out of mascara before buying more, instead of buying/hoarding them like the eyelash apocalypse in approaching.

Notebooks: Oh god, so so many notebooks. I've always had this romantic vision of filling countless black notebooks with page after page of my words. When this fails to happen the notebook is clearly the one to blame in the relationship and is eventually forgotten in lieu of another notebook.

 

Tae kwan do: When I was younger, I got up to my orange belt. In high school I tried again and made it to camp belt this time (yes, camo as in camouflage. Shut up, I didn't choose to grow up in the South). But I suppose I just don't have the heart of a karate master. Also I had to start sparring. Clearly I am a lover, not a fighter-so I spent most of my time avoiding any actual contact with my opponents.

 

Coffee: I drink it by the gallon. But I like my drinks to be so hot that they almost burn my tongue. Once it cools down to lukewarm or even hot it might as well be baby piss. And do not tell me to put ice in it and make it iced coffee. That is so not how you make iced coff–you know what. Public service announcement time: you cannot make iced coffee simply by adding ice to regular coffee. Especially when that coffee is still hot. I'm looking at you, Einstein's Bagels. Cut that shit out.

 

Any DIY projects that include a shopping trip: I usually like to buy about 1/3 of the supplies needed and forget them in my car for three months, hoping they self assemble via osmosis.

 

Diets, cleanses, etc:Any of those 1 week/10 days/30 day exercise diets or cleanses or workout challenges are abandoned with ease in record timing.

 

Vitamins: I try to be a good adult and buy multi vitamins and vitamins for your hair and skin, with visions of becoming the kind of person that wakes up and fills themselves with a buttload of nutrients, then probably goes on a six mile hike, and has oatmeal for breakfast. I even buy the sour gummy kind (the ones for adults, come on guys give me some credit).

 

To the Ass Holes That Stole my Laptop,

I hope karma catches up to you in weird and unexpected ways a lot over the next few years.

I hope you always have to wait in line for the bathroom. But like, a really long line.

I hope you do that thing where you lose whatever it is that you just had in your hands like, seriously like four fucking seconds ago?! every single day.

I want you to be forever trying to remember the word for something, and it’s always on the tip of your tongue, but never comes to you.

I hope you’re always constipated, except when you go to the movies.

I hope you accidentally date, and subsequently marry an estranged sibling.

I hope your order is always wrong: at ever restaurant, bar, and coffee place.

I hope someone else eats those leftovers that you have been looking forward to all day.

But I want them to leave the container in the fridge, so you have to experience false hope before crushing disappointment.

I hope you have a long and messy custody battle with your ex-wife/sister over the dog that you both hate.

I hope you always feel like there’s water in one of your ears.

I hope Steve Jobs haunts the shit out of you (for a while anyway, I know he has a lot of ghost stuff to do).

I want you to win custody and then I hope the dog immediately pees on your pillows. All of them.

I hope that when you are finally ready to date again you fall in love with a girl who turns out to be a lesbian trying to make her ex girlfriend jealous.

And I hope it worked.

I hope you always have a wedgie that never goes away, no matter how hard you pick it.

I hope that you are unable to recover,  give up on women all together and decide to date store mannequins, exclusively.

Don’t Have a First Date at Starbucks if You don’t Want Me to Write About It

It’s actually starting to get kind of cold but I can’t go inside because I wouldn’t be able to overhear spy on the the table next to me…

As they waited for their drinks  I heard her ask,  “Where exactly do you go to school?”

DING DING DING, WE HAVE A FRIST DATE.

She was wearing a pink (but not too pink) lipstick that matched her leggings almost perfectly. This paired with a sundress, light cardigan and nude ballet flats all seemed to scream: this is my first date outfit. Her hair had been painstakingly curled with a hot iron by a best friend, no doubt who came over before the date to lend her some earrings and do her hair and give her some advice that she had cultivated from Cosmo.
He was in light colored jeans and a plain t-shirt—either trying way too hard to make it look like he wasn’t trying hard or he just genuinely did not give a shit.
They were both a bit awkward. Awkward as in I thought they were brother and sister at first. Meaning when I heard her say, “let’s sit outside,” while they were waiting for their drinks, I obviously sat at the table right in the middle of the patio, ensuring that they would be directly to one side of me.
It would have been wrong not to.
I was not disappointed.

I heard some of the most wonderful prepared first date questions. All of them from her. He only responded.

So, have you always been into planes? (he was in school for some sort of plan engineering, so it wash’t totally out of the blue, but….come on girl)
So like, what are your top five favorite bands??
Uh, I don’t really know
OMG me either, I don’t really know why I asked. -nervous giggling- I was just trying to think of “though provoking” questions. -more nervous giggles.
Do you have any siblings? Are you close with them?
What are your hobbies? (Really?? really???)
How do you like your school? What do you plan to do after graduation?

I was so enthralled with their conversation that I didn’t even think about the situation at first. I’m really curious about her though process in setting up this morning date…

At a coffee shop so they would have time to really talk
At a crowded Starbucks off the highway so he wouldn’t be able to abduct her, should he turn out to be a sketchy motherfucker.
On a Tuesday so she seemed laid back and spontaneous. like she doesn’t have to wait for the weekend to have fun,
At 11 am because she wanted to make it very clear that he would not be any. Not today, and not anytime soon. No, it would take a few “real” dates, ones that required him to pick her up and pick out a restaurant–she would act like she didn’t expect him to pay but she totally did–followed by some sort of activity like mini golf. Something that would sound cute when she told her friends about “OMG the nicest guy took me to play mini golf, so cute right!?!”

It was that weird time in October when fall was trying its hardest to make an appearance. So if you sat outside long enough you would wish you were wearing a sweatshirt. She was visibly getting cold, but refused to go inside, not wanting to give up the ambiance that the patio overlooking the highway provided.

What No One Tells You About Growing Up in the Bible Belt

While I have lived in Georgia since I was six, I would never ever call myself a “southerner.” Even when I was younger and didn’t know why, I never felt connected with the south in any way. While I have recently come to find a soft spot for Atlanta–it’s definitely the kind of city that grows on you– Atlanta is nothing like the rest of the south, or even the rest of Georgia. Everyone knows about the negative stereotypes that fall south of the Mason-Dixon, but there are some less well known challenges that come along with growing up down here:

1. Southern hospitality is real and people will judge you for not happily chatting with the guy in line behind you at Starbucks–even if you’re super hungover and using all of your energy not to vomit on the barista. You are basically in constant danger of having to engage in polite conversation at any moment. I understand that I am  complaining about people being “too friendly,” you can’t judge me till you’ve been here.  It can get old.

2. Not everyone who lives here is a conservative Christian Republican, but that is undoubtably the accepted viewpoint. They like to say things like, “keep God in the schools or we’ll have more school shootings!” and people are generally cool with it…while the rest of us are forever rolling our eyes.

3. College. Football. Just….really? I do not understand the circle jerking that accompanies the “Dawgs” or “Crimson Tide” (side note:how are there not more period jokes made about Bama?). Things I do not fucking get about college football (other than the actual game of football)–why girls have to wear dresses, heels, and jewelry in school colors; Why you have to broadcast the fact that you are watching/at the game on Facebook: WAR DAMN EAGLE! ROLL TIDE!!!! DAWGSSS!!!! Seriously? You can’t even get just a tiny bit creative with it; why people are so fucking into it, like grown ass men..you know at the end of the day these are college kids who spend their weeks doing homework for English 1101 and drinking Natty lite, right?

4. Jesus christ, the fucking accents. I’m sorry–you might be a rocket scientist, but if you sound like Forrest Gump it’s going to take me a minute to get past the accent.

5. While we’re on the subject: y’all. It’s not a real word. Stop it.

6. Every week, every fucking week one of my Facebook friends is engaged. I understand that  I am 24 and it’s only going to get worse from here..whatever. But it is totally the norm down here to get married at 21, 22 and no one bats an eye. It’s almost expected. While that isn’t so totally unreasonable, I seem to be in the minority that isn’t freaking out about a ring and a house. If one more of my friends says the phrase, ‘I mean, renting is just basically throwing money away,’ I’m going to cunt-punt someone. I’m not throwing shit away–I’m trading money for a place to stay and the freedom to pick up and leave whenever I want. Have fun with your yard work.

7. Up until very recently you couldn’t buy booze on Sundays. Some liquor stores can still refuse to sell it…you know, because Jesus.

8. Let’s end on a positive note: There  is some delicious barbecue down here,  and the hole in the wall places are always the best. The shittier the place, the better the bbq. If it’s attached to a gas station it’s probably life-changing.

Eight Ways in Which I am Totally Unprepared to Be an Adult

1. Taxes??? How do you do them? Where do you send them? Literally everything about taxes.
2. Breakfast. Seriously, how do you guys do it every single day. You just wake up and remember to eat an appropriate breakfast (Red Bull and a few bites of last nights pizza is NOT a balanced meal, apparently)? I’m usually full (or hungover) from last night, so my body just cannot find the energy to get excited about any sort of food until about 1:00. Shut up, I know breakfast is super important.
3. Routine. I don’t really get it. Other than the bare minimum-wake up, brush teeth, shower, all that basic hygiene–I abhor routine. Now that I am done with school I run in the total opposite direction of any impending scheduling.
4. I don’t watch the news–unless you count the Daily Show and the Colbert Report, which I do…that should probably be reason 5a.
5. I have zero self control. ‘I’m going to be responsible and go to bed early tonigh–oh what’s that? It’s $2 Tuesday? I guess it would be irresponsible not to have a few $2 beers..” Three hours later I’m drunk and chain smoking on the roof of my friends apartment building.
6. Iced coffee is one of my food groups.
7. How often do you need to see various doctors? Like, why isn’t there one of those little stickers they put on your windshield when you get an oil change (might be a bit problematic for the gyno though)?
8. Scheduling. I was a bridesmaid in my friend’s wedding recently and the other bridesmaids insisted on planning everything almost a year in advance. I would get texts asking, “Will you be able to go dress shopping on August 8 at noon?” Bitch, it’s January. I’m not ready to commit to what I’m eating for lunch tomorrow.