Post-concert depression is the worst.
… Wait, that sounds bad, and now I feel like an ass. Of course there are worse things. Remind me to make a donation to UNICEF, please.
I’m nursing a bottle of Sunkist wrapped in a brown paper lunch bag (to better convey my despair), and I’m watching YouTube videos of red pandas being adorable. But alas, neither can soothe the ache unleashing its Hulk-sized fists upon my heart.
There was a concert. An amazing concert. A concert that dropped so much confetti, I’ll probably be finding it in weird places for the next six months. And confetti is great, but you know what’s even better? Donnie freaking Wahlberg coming down from the stage and singing to you.
Yeah, I think my mind might have exploded when I saw him walking toward me because I couldn’t actually register what was happening, my man singling me out, the crowd cheering, until I felt his forehead against mine. And then it was, “Ohholyshit, Donnie’s sweat is on me. THIS IS THE GREATEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE!” (Who gets excited over sweat? That would be this lady right here, apparently… though I’d like to think I wouldn’t have the same reaction to any dude I bump into on the street.). Everything happened so fast, and yet it was as if time slowed just for me. I got a kiss before he turned away, and even now I’m still in a state of shock.
But now it’s all over with me back in the real world, and a depression not even red pandas can cure has set in. Because really, there is no topping that experience. Ever.
Post-concert depression sucks.
I need some more damn Sunkist…