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And just this once, why don't you fight?

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Jun. 2nd, 2014 | 04:51 pm
mood: workingworking
music: Showtime - Aesthetic Perfection

Red fishnets bleed under the threat of rainy weather, did you know? I certainly didn't when I donned them the night of the Aesthetic Perfection concert last week, choker in check and boots laced high. More disconcerting was the fact that I hadn't even a whisper of a clue of what a small venue, a close-knit fan base, and a night on the town with adam_0oo held tightly tucked and waiting to brandish fiercely, but I knew it would be an exciting kind of different. The breath-defying tingle in the pit of my chest kept telling me so.

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Being among the most conservatively dressed in the crowd is not a habit of mine, and so it was a little peculiar that I should stand out for what I have forever had a difficult time standing in for. Some personified Halloween and some seemed to bloom right from the naughty end of a Victoria's Secret catalog, but it mattered not when the lights turned down and the lead took the stage, grinning wider than a masochistic Barbie doll and coddling the microphone like a much-needed drink. The excitement in me burst like a swollen balloon; I let it rip through me with all the chaotic caresses of a windy day on the beach. I laughed, I cried, I screamed (sometimes even louder than he--and perfectly on cue with his glimmering eyes when they alighted on me). I cannot accurately depict, no matter the depth of language offered by my very adept head the fulfillment granted in spite of my fervent longing for this event, for the feelings I felt and wanted to feel since the very first time I was able to rock an outfit myself, part my hair the way I relished, say the things I meant to say when instead a hard swallow and a second thought sufficed. I witnessed a birth in myself that I feigned pregnancy with for the better part of my twenty-four years--the colors bled brighter, the industrial pound of the bass louder, empowering, able to lift me from the ground and hold me above the acrid, day-to-day haze attempting feverishly to quarantine me under. A simple girl would find achievement in expressing herself as "alive," but for me the word falls short. I was certain that, had I the means to telephone God He would have granted me a concrete pick-up on the often ignored line. There is a newly discovered vein in my immortality, a vein no knife can touch, and it faces the world with renewed promise and tenacity.

Adam was there when my train pulled in, when the glasses emptied, and when my sense of direction took a flying leap out of the back window. And he was there egging me on when the animal in me stole the stage between sets from the scantily clad goth girls who seemingly graced it while I rocked it. Somehow no matter the act, no matter the venue, no matter how incredibly much the beauty of being there means to me an underground anxiety surfaces enough to pinch a nerve, hoist worry on the surface of my brain about how much whomever I am with might actually enjoy themselves (though I have difficulty foreseeing myself going alone). But there was a moment in the heat of one of the new singles blaring out over the crowd in which the music cuts and the singer stops and an automated, robotic drone voices, predictably with the chorus, "You're the antibody." And, lost in the passion of that heat, I found myself whipping sharply around on the drop of the beat to shout the words in my friend's face when, to my marked, unsurpassed surprise he pressed his forehead to mine and stole the words right from my mouth! That was the greatest, most freeing moment for me.

On the aesthetic side of such perfection, the scene itself was cozy. Wanting to enjoy the music from the front row meant you could still leave the square two feet for a drink, a bathroom break, to peruse the merchandise tables in the lobby. (This was a foreign language for a girl like me, so accustomed am I to fighting for my life in Dropkick Murphys moshpits.) Coming back to claim the spot was easy if your enthusiasm was obvious, and mine was unprecedented; it meant that when the bop and sway of the music--and, thus, crowd--caused knocking heads, tangled foreign fingers, hip nudges we turned beaming faces to one another and apologized--often more than once--and exchanged excited profanities over the song. And said songs? He missed not a one. He resurrected my favorite album and granted it new life, took my social media suggestions and hung neon lights around them, essentially. The encore had my name formally scrawled on it. I was completely blown away, finally grasped the meaning behind the lyrics "don't forget your head where you left it." I left my head on an industrial-fitted stage in Lower Manhattan with flickering lights and gloved fists (I bumped the lead's!!) and I haven't much intention to get it back, honestly. I took a deep breath of valiant life under that roof in my bleeding red fishnets and knowingly swallowed it. I don't want to exhale.

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I spy a radiantly ecstatic girl with a pirate tattoo who may have just bumped gloved fists with Daniel Graves.

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Aesthetic Perfection selfie!

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We were a toxic dance duo, this little red devil and I.

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Spoiler: Naked butts.

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The curtain's raised
Start the play
(Tears in your eyes)

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Comments {1}

adam-0oo

(no subject)

from: adam_0oo
date: Jun. 3rd, 2014 06:10 pm (UTC)
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Woo! and so on.

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