hater ⇔ c.h.

seven; i'm about to spaz

Wednesday, May 14th, 2015. Two days until Boys Like Girls takes the stage. Eight days until the next concert, which also means five more days until I am faced with the... how do I put this? Mystery band. Yes. Five days until I meet my mystery band.

It's the first time I've ever excepted a position here without knowing the clients, but I'm sure it's best I don't know.

What I do know is that one of the greatest bands of all time is in the same building as me, and I'm finding it hard to breathe. I was instructed to unload their guitars into the racks on the stage, thus being the reason for my failing lungs.

I am actually holding their guitars right now. Boys Like Girls' guitars are in my hands.

On an ordinary day, I would practically throw instruments into place, but this is no ordinary day and this is no ordinary band. This is one of my favorite bands. Their guitars won't get so much as a speck of dust while under my watch.

"What's crack-a-lackin, Te-"

"Don't touch the guitars."

I must've turned too quickly, spoken too suddenly, because Jordan jumped high into the air and landed smack on his butt. His face showed signs of pure terror and a possibly appending heart attack. So maybe I'm a little on edge, but it's only because I am ridiculously happy and dangerously excited about merely holding a guitar that will be played by this band.

"I didn't even go near them!" he shouted, still on the floor. The lashing out was something I've never seen Jordan do, but I basically scared him out of his pants, so it's acceptable.

"Just don't touch anything," I growled, placing the last electric guitar into the front space of the rack. He awkwardly climbed to his feet and began to sit on a amp close by. "No!" I screamed, pointing to him in a psychotic sort of way. "Don't sit there either."

He looked at me as if I was insane, which might be true at the moment, "And why not?"

I mirrored his face, suddenly very offended.

"It's their amp."

"Who's amp?"

"Boys Like Girls," I clarified as if explaining physics to a physicist. What can I say? You don't exactly have to be smart to work at a stadium.

Under realization, my coworker just continued to stand, probably in fear of me taking him out with a mic stand. Although, I wasn't quite sure as to why he was watching me organize guitar picks. I slowly turned towards him, "Oh... uh, may I help you with something?"

He kicked at the ground, hands in his pockets. "Okay, what do you want?"

This particular stance was the I-want-something-so-I'm-not-going-to-be-annoying kind of look. He tries to make himself seem innocent so he can work up the nerve to look me in the eye and beg for whatever it is that he wants.

"Well... I was wondering-"

"If you're asking me on a date, you already know the answer."

He rolled his eyes, "No, not a date."

What could this boy possibly want from me? A tampon? He always seemed a little girly to me. "It's about the concert next week."

My eyes subconsciously widened, "I don't want to know. Do not tell me. I don't want to know who is performing."

"What?" he questioned, confused.

God, I would've been less frightened if he'd asked me for a tampon.