The love for Manchester, Tennessee: Waiting in line for heaven and more hell

I drove for five hours, with only the best company-cigarettes and good music, and then the night set in and I was like a giddy little girl falling in love for the first time. There's nothing better than this, driving alone, dancing to every song, following strangers to a destination where crazy dreams like mine become reality, waiting for the new world I've found to come smack me in the face. And Bonnaroo did just that.


    As I sit in this horrendous line and the semi's and lost souls speed by, I feel like I'm on the right path; the path of colorful lights and huge stages swarmed by neo-hippies and fakers all filling up on grass and mushrooms. Sounds tempting and so I'm here...
   They're driving home to see their wives and children and be comfortable, just comfortable. They're driving all night to try and make it to the next destination, where they'll pick up another load and go off again, not to fall in love with the black top, but to cuss and spit at another night on the road, where they'll huff rush, eat gas station subs smothered in mayonaise and get blown by another waste of life. It's terrible really, that all our stereotypes and traditions have made us a people willing to sacrifice fun for respect.
    But my road is my savior, my god that gets me out of the trap, rescuing me right before I eat the cheese and get my neck broken. My road, my path, leads to adventure, insomnia and blurred words.