A long time ago, in a giant city far, far away from most of us, because apparently there are only three gentle-giantess fans in my entire state! What the hell! Why?! Oh, I’m so ALONE! No, I’m not. I’m never alone when I’m with all of you. But back to my blog entry. I love going to concerts, especially by myself. I’m a loner. It’s how I’ve always rolled, and how I’ll always be. That creates some upset around me, as I’m constantly asked what I’m thinking, and asked to say “something”. I’m not a monkey for anyone’s amusement!! Dammit! OK, OK, OK. Calming down. These have been both stressful and calm days. I’m trying to focus on the latter, and succeeding when I sit down to write.
As I was saying before I fake-freaked out, I love going to concerts. I arrive in one piece, and usually leave without my voice, but always happy for days. Music is one of my drugs, together with books. I don’t smoke, or do drugs, and I stopped drinking nearly a year ago, so I do all my snorting and injecting through my ear canals. One of the more memorable highs was Marilyn Manson’s. I was a fan for a long time (still am), and happily plopped the money for that ticket months in advance. The day of the concert I couldn’t eat or speak, dressed myself in black, and made myself up as gothy as I could. It wasn’t much, but sufficient to earn me an are-you-suicidal pamphlet from the christians milling around the entrance.
Seriously, zealots: I’m the mom of a son I adore. A life-loving woman that spends a great deal of time running a porn tape in the back of her mind, where she’s having sexy fun with a shrunken man. Just because I rock out to MM doesn’t mean I’m about to slash my wrists. What I did instead was sing at the top of my lungs, as I knew all the lyrics by heart. I didn’t sing them. I screamed them. A different kind of fun took place when Brian Warner disappeared behind the stage as it was brought to semi-darkness. Seconds later, a bright light was shone from behind the tall screen, and his silhouette appeared in between, and it was gigantic. He was walking on stilts, and wearing the accompanying signature skirt. Naturally, I thought of myself as a giantess on stage, singing my heart out for adoring fans. I never know what’s going to set me off, but it’s usually everything.
Years passed, and inevitably, shit hit my fan. It was bad. I didn’t want to get up in the morning anymore. I didn’t write. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to do anything. I was fading, and quickly. The turning point was made of many, and one of them was my decision to start going to concerts again. It was Black Friday last year, and I got an email from Ticketmaster, and it read that I could get a ticket for this particular group for only $20.00. I said to myself, what the hell, I’ll probably be dead by then anyway. So I bought it for $20.00, and it was the best worst money I’ve ever spent. Best, because that morning I changed my mind and decided to skip the concert. I ignored myself completely. I got ready five minutes before it was time to leave, and got to the venue with enough energy to walk to my seat. Worst, because my seat was as far away from the stage as one could get. I sat in that last row, and let it all seep into me. I cried as one of the opening acts performed a song that was a favorite of a friend’s; one I lost to suicide. I laughed because I remembered a promise I had made to myself many years ago: that of seeing them live at least once.
As I sat there screaming and shouting and laughing a little, and enjoying my perspective of the group’s newfound micro size, and singing lyrics I also knew the way I know my own face, I decided maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe I could stick it out a little bit longer. Things are much better now. Much, much better. I’m grateful for that. Now, any idjit can tell who these guys are; but whoever guesses it first gets to be instantly shrunk and live out the rest of his days with the giantess of his choice. That’s the truth. I’m not lying when I tell you that’s what’s going to happen to one lucky winner. Have at it!