Our Entropy

While at a death metal show a couple weeks ago, my coworkers wife was telling me about this article she wrote. Upon my insistence, she put it up on her blog for all to enjoy!

The guy in front of me is sweating like a pig, and a minute ago he smacked me in the face with his wet, stringy hair. Some of it got in my mouth, and even though it didn’t taste like anything, I want to brush my teeth. Or gargle. Or something. I can still feel the texture of that sweat-soaked mane on my lips, like the trail a slug leaves in the dirt, and it makes me want to retch.

The guy’s being a real ass, trying to climb on the backs of the guys in front of him, reaching out his arms to the stage. In his desperation, he elbows the dude next to him in the face. I’ve tried to back away, but I’m scared to move too much – the guy behind me is seven feet tall, and he’s bald, and he has a neck tattoo.

I want to go home. My feet hurt, my makeup’s running, and the smell in the middle of the mosh pit is unbearable. If I fell down right now, I’m sure I’d be trampled by a stampede of combat boots. I can’t understand a word the band is saying – possibly something about torture? Kittens? Norse mythology? It’s hard to tell when they growl so much. This is, undoubtedly, one of the worst moments of my life. I’m a girl! What the hell am I doing here?

I scan the crowd, looking for my husband, Henrik, and find him at the foot of the stage. He’s entranced by the music, roaring along with the lyrics, banging his head to the music with everyone else. It’s as though the rest of the world has disappeared. And even though he’s scowling, and kinda looks like a demon, his eyes are sparkling.

READ THE REST HERE! She is a great writer.