Anyone, Anyone?

It was damned cold that day. Don’t’ even ask me why I was out in the mere beginnings of spring where there was frost everywhere, standing outside at seven in the morning, and freezing my ass off. Because even I don’t understand it much anymore.

I’m crazy. That’s the only sufficient thing I’ve come to understand. Amy is hella crazy and has in turn, made me become some kind of retard born out of a cult of total morons.

Okay, maybe she didn’t actually turn me into that…but somewhere along the way I know I can blame her for why I’m doing what I’m doing. Or at least for why I’m even there.

I’m in line.

Waiting to buy tickets.

For them.

Grr, I want to yell. But not quite like all the other teenagers—or the dreaded teenybobbers, oops, I used the T-word. They are yelling so loud right now! It’s not quite the ear-spliting, brain-numbing screams I’m sure will be at the concert if I ever actually get a freaking ticket. But it’s close.

I’m the oldest person here who is not accompanying a walking Backstreet Boys advertisement. I have to shake my head each time I come into contact with yet another one. They’re so damned small. And, they keep bumping into my legs when I turn around or whenever they keep leaping about to talk to yet another psychotic fan, always, always squealing.

Ritalin anyone?

Anyone?

Please! Help me! My hearing is going, I’m sure of that much. That will accompany my insanity if the two can ever find each other. I can picture it all now. When I’m seeing a psychiatrist to help me get over the crazed feelings that came over me to actually decide to show up at a Ticketmaster line and buy tickets. He’ll ask me what I miss the most about being a sane person.

Most would say their mind. Funny, eh? Not me, though. I’d have to say my hearing. Because it’s very unfortunate that I plan on paying top dollar to appease my girlfriend who is a full-blown fan to a boy band whose target audience is junior high girls, only to lose my hearing before the hour of ten.

"Ten? You’re buying ten tickets?"

I looked down after a voice squeaked at me.

I said that comment aloud?

The girl had long brown hair and seemed normal enough. She wasn’t tugging someone’s hand, screeching that she was going to see the Backstreet Boys, and she wasn’t pushing her way to a better position just to receive lottery tickets for the actual sale. She was just smiling up at me, with a few teeth missing however. But, I’m sure that’s due to the normal route of dental history for someone her age and not because of extreme plaque.

Then again, you never know.

I didn’t quite understand what she was saying to me the first time around. My eyebrows furrowed and I repeated her words oddly. "Ten tickets?"

The look she gave me in return was priceless. It was like I just grew a third head. That or I was the biggest moron to walk the planet. Which is very possible to be proven true.

"You’re buying ten tickets? God… Guy, the limit’s like five or six."

And then the voice. She was so demeaning.

I just had to ask… "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

Then I gave her the eye, "Where’s your mom?"

She shook her head a bit, as if deciding on what her answer should be while she was trying to shake away the real one. Then the girl looked up as if she was nothing but bold. "She dropped me off this morning." A little cock of her head and the hands were planted at her hips.

It was priceless. She had the attitude down to an art. I was so in awe that this twelve year old was talking to me—someone nearly a decade her elder—with this much huff in her voice. Like I was bothering her?

I tried the adult-eye thing. You know, that, I know you’re lying, so if I look closer at you and make my eye bulge out, then you’ll tell me the truth. It’s the same look old guys give when they’re constipated…

"And she just left you by yourself?"

"Hey, I’m no kid," and she even motioned a hard thumb at her chest.

Oh, God help her…she’s in trouble already. I wasn’t about to give her an easy time and just sweet talk her into trusting me because there was no other adult around. No-siree-bob. I would stand my ground and be haughty about my age and the fact that she didn’t bother me in the slightest.

"I’d really say that was about the stupidest thing you could say. I mean," then I pointed around us. "You are here after all."

With a terribly short yet loud snort, she eyed me in return. "And what are you doing here then?"

Well, it appears she wasn’t going to sweet talk me either.