four o'clock: winding down at work. soon, i will take off early, so as to have plenty of time to catch the bus to the showbox to see thursday and coheed and cambria. gradually, however, i realize my hands won't stop shaking, my heart is pounding out of my chest, and my stomach is about to void its contents all over starbucks' internal mail. a month ago, when i bought my ticket, i wasn't worried at all; the day of, panic sets in. i've been doing so well lately. then suddenly, it hits like a ton of bricks. i hadn't felt this panicky since college, and if it had continued to get worse, i didn't think i could have physically made it through the show.

five thirty: i offer to sell my ticket to my housemate, who didn't buy his ticket early enough. he accepts. panic subsides.

seven o'clock: we're standing in line, because my ticket is will-call and i have to present my credit card to get him in. we stood there for about an hour, and spoke more in that hour than we had in the previous three or four months. it was really good to talk to him again; i got some things off my chest that had been there for a while. plus, i didn't lose the money for the ticket, and i found an andrew wk button. a successful night.

moral: giving up is easier and often works out better.

...but sunday, i have to see carissa's wierd. period.


post-script: housemate returned after ninety minutes, having been kicked out of the showbox after passing out from the intense heat and dehydration after coheed and cambria played. they thought he was drunk. i swear, everyone who works there is a fucking cock.