cex = vanilla ice x puck from the real world.

me = really incredibly talented at ruining my own evening.

should i elaborate? do i need to bother? i was having an i-hate-everyone night. i hate black-and-white and black-and-red skinny-striped t-shirts. i hate meshback hats. i hate really fat belts with three rows of holes that look totally unflattering on everyone. i hate white blazers and i hate white pants with white blazers even more. i hate short-sleeved sweatshirts. and, most burningly, i hate armwarmers.

when someone has their own personal style, it doesn't matter what they're wearing. when someone is just aping whatever bullshit "fashion" trend is coming down the freeway this month, you can tell. if the hipster mafia decided next week that seattle circa 1991 was the thing, fasionably speaking, these people would be in docs and flannel. you can tell.

and i hate people that are dicks on purpose and girls who throw cups of ice at their friends and the only people i don't hate (that were at the blackbird tonight) are 1. the random dude who talked to me (oh, the chris cornell hair) until i scared him by saying that i was too busy hating half the people there to have an opinion on cex, 2. the dude who i made way for who said "thank you" in a very surly voice that insinuated that no one else had bothered to gracefully made way for him, 3. the dude who spilled pabst all over me even though he spilled pabst all over me because he reached out for my arm and when he found that it was covered in beer he looked really sheepish, and 4. the postal service merch boy who smiled at me when i stomp-sulked to the back, shaking beer from my jacket and glaring at my skirt, a darker pink in patches from aforementioned boy's pabst.

did he give me my sticker and pin free because he felt bad for me, because i smiled at him, or because they're always free? the sticker said 2/$1, but who knows. i waved my money questioningly at him, but he made the universal sign for, "no, don't worry about it," and i wanted to kiss him for being the best thing about my night. and also, he was adorable.

not that it matters, but ben gibbard is clearly putting on weight. also, he needs a haircut.

also, the postal service were really good, but i don't think that is the girl who sings on the album and i don't think i like her as much (see: above opinions on white blazers and white jeans) and also i think it would have been better if i could have seen and if i was not on my own.

i didn't need to hate everyone. i didn't start out hating everyone; i started out half-tempted to stash my bag and coat somewhere and make my way to the front and dance myself silly during cex's set, because really? there is not a lot more laughable than a bunch of portland hipsters who don't know how to dance. but i didn't, and the blackbird was so crowded that no one could move without being a dick accidentally but few people seemed to notice this and thus became dicks not-so-accidentally and some jackass hit me in the forehead with his big fat skull and didn't notice and oh, those fucking preppy girls with their indie rock boyfriends who are just there to look cool in the outfits they bought in the...ok. ok. ok. breathe.

i don't know why i am full of hate tonight. i don't. i really don't. but have you ever gone to see a band expecting to feel some sort of camaraderie with the other audience members, to feel like you're in it together, like they understand, and then come to the sharp realization that you're in a room largely full of people you probably wouldn't like very much?

i almost left to just go listen to give up and drive around portland.

but i didn't, and they were good, they really were, but i was distracted, and i was narrating everything to myself and trying to stop and doing it again and trying to stop and wondering why it is that i have such a hard time being in any given moment without phrasing it in my head like i'm telling someone else the story later. even though it's happening.

even though it might pass me by when it's happening.

i left before the encore, if there was one, and i sat in the car and turned on the lights and turned them off again when i realized i was going to start crying.

i cry so easily it should be a fucking joke.

when my eyes started burning from the mascara melting into them, i started laughing at myself, and i turned up "relative ways" and drove home.

(everytime i go to a show and i get a stamp on the inside of my right wrist i realize how much i would like to have a tattoo there. but later. first i have to get the trilliums. first i have to get the trilliums designed, and then i have to get them applied. oh, someday soon, i hope.)

so i am cranky, and it is needless, and it is additionally stupid when you take into consideration the mood i was in earlier on the way to portland. i was watching the trees, and watching the clouds, and watching the elegant angle of a bird's wing as it crossed the road ahead of me, and watching the way the sunlight hit the ladder on the back of a semi so that its shadow had a twist, like it was dreaming of being a spiral staircase in a west village loft.

all of these things with the window down, wondering how so many other drivers could keep their windows up, hiding in their air conditioning on such an incredibly beautiful day.

and k. i wanted to tell you. all of those things i was watching, all of the tiny details that made me smile? those are the answer to your question from last night. because when something makes me rub the cobwebs out of my eyes and look at things and realize i haven't really been seeing them for awhile, well. it's that moment when somehow you want to be something more, and you realize you know exactly what to attribute it to.

i can't explain it. but that's why.

i am probably crazy. but at the very least i will appreciate it for what it brings.