Saw Vampire Weekend; still freaking out

my heaRT

Two weeks ago I went to a Vampire Weekend concert, and it was probably on of the most surreal things that has ever happened to me. I don't even think my mind registered the fact that I was at a concert of one of my favorite bands (thanks to tickets that I bought off Craigslist and picked up from an Exxon gas station parking lot) until they walked offstage in a seemingly abrupt manner because they were probably playing hard to get/trying to torture fans' psyches because VW fully intended on playing three more songs but didn't want to tell them that.

But they were still perfect. Ezra was perfect. Rostam was perfect. Both Chris-es were perfect. EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT OK.

(This was technically my first concert. Forgive me for the lack of restraint *coughsorrynotsorrycough*)

I just want to take everything from that sweat-drenched, impossible night and keep it suspended in a time pocket somewhere. I think Ezra's camouflage cargo pants with microscopic dogs on it deserves some real estate in the expanse of memory; so does the hoarseness of my voice after shriek-singing song after song, or the kindness of the 7-eleven midnight shift-ers for keeping my friend's phone safe after she left it on the counter while she was buying a now-forgotten drink. We didn't, however, get to meet Ezra and Baio after the show (trust me, there were t e a r s), so that part of the night can just shuffle its way out of the time pocket and into a folder that says 'do not disturb'.

Does this story have a moral? Maybe, maybe not. All I got out of it is that post-concert depression is real, and that when you pay for concert tickets, you're actually paying for magic.

(And by magic, I mean crowded bodies in a crowded venue raising their phones in the air to capture the moment. It's still magic though!!)

still screaming

An excuse note of sorts

I told myself that blogs were for fashionable, 20-something urbanites with many adventures and an abundance of coffee. Or perhaps for the backpacking, ‘global citizen' types.

Sadly, I am neither fashionable, nor twenty-something. The most adventure that I have is stepping out of my house and walking 20 feet to the communal mail compartments to get mail. And the coffee I consume is usually of the burnt-tasting Folger's variety.

I've been told many times over the course of my academic career that I'm a good writer. I'm not saying this to be pretentious (which is exactly what a pretentious person would say. Huh), I just feel like this phenomenon has something to do the fact that I believed their offhand repetitions. I suppose I treated them as a sort of blanket statement concerning my writing abilities. Obviously, I would tell myself, this must mean I'm destined to be an award-winning author!

It turns out, I was very, very wrong.

I think that I have much too many digressive thoughts to warrant myself a 'good writer'. I also do not possess the commitment and the attention span necessary to organize said thoughts into coherent, readable pieces. 

Yet here I am, attempting to spruce up a little crevice in the Internet for myself... and you, if you're reading (I'll apologise in advance; this writing is crazy formal and probably a remnant of all the essay writing I've been subject to as a student in the American education system).

Who knows? There might be more adventures in the future. More digressive thought posts. Maybe even a little foray into vlogging.

Or this blog might just join the countless others I've sent to blog purgatory. Miss me, Random Thoughts and Snack Foods?