I Wanna Be Yr Joey Ramone - 02.24.03 - 1:01 am
Look!

Had the Diaryland servers not been getting all fucking stupid on Saturday, you would have been treated to a raving, pissed-off, heartbroken and pre-menstrual mess of an entry. But, alas, the servers were being all fucking stupid, so here is a brief summary.

I love Sleater-Kinney. Like, a lot. They make me really fucking happy.

They are coming in fucking April.

They are opening for fucking Pearl Jam.

Tickets are 35 fucking dollars, pre-tax, pre-venue fee and pre-fucking-Ticketmaster-ass-raping-service-charges.

They will be playing in an arena. A fucking arena with four fucking levels and a goddamn snack bar with 8 dollar beers.

At first, I was excited. Holy shit! I said. I don't care about any of that. I'm going because seeing Sleater-Kinney would be a goddamn religious experience and I would be happy for, like, ever.

And then I went online to see about tickets. Sales started at 10 that day and at noon, the floor and the first level had been sold out. My heart slowed down.

Then I started to think about it.

And my heart slowly made its way out of my chest cavity and began throwing itself against the ground until it was nothing but a pile of rust-colored dust.

Oh, yeah. Summary. Right.

Sleater-Kinney is not an arena band. Sleater-Kinney is personal and real and being able to stand so close that you're hit by sweat. Sleater-Kinney should not be opening for some megaband that charges almost 50 dollars per ticket. (Actually, in my opinion, Sleater-Kinney should not be opening for anyone. But that's just me and my undying love for this fucking band.)

And don't tell me this is all about money. I refuse to believe that money is something Sleater-Kinney would put before their fans. So shut the fuck up, OK? I'm already heart-broken as it is. I'll just pretend that there was some Major Big Favor Sleater-Kinney had to do for someone and this is it. Really. Lives were at stake or something.

Shit. I'm probably not making sense and someone (hell, everyone) is probably thinking that I'm overreacting and I need to calm down. Yeah. Sure. I'll shut up now.

Anyway, May is home! Yay, May! We visited the home-ridden, soon-to-be Origami Master Vicky and then we went to the diner. El Creepy Fucko was there and he kept fucking staring at me like I was some bird at the zoo. Free stickers to anyone who can tell me where I shamelessly ganked that line from. And then he told me that he had "jewelry" for me. My eyes were rolling even before the little angel on my shoulder could mutter "be nice." Luckily, he didn't invite himself to sit at our table for the next two hours or anything. After he left, our waitress friend came over and apologized for him. "I hate how he gets around girls!" she said. "It's so stupid and embarrassing." And then she told us that he thinks the two of us are the sweetest girls. OK, I'm not avoiding eye contact with you to the point where I've been staring at the same fleck of ash for twenty minutes because I'm SHY. I'm avoiding eye contact because you fucking scare me, bubba.

Blah.

I bitch a lot. Too much complaining and not enough action. The story of my fucking life.

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