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.

This is me alone... (final post)

There was no Wednesday.

You can't keep fire contained for long. It will flicker while you watch, waiting for it's moment to burst into flames, scorching the earth and destroying everything in its way. I've been sucking in and spitting out the charred remains of everyone and everything in my path these last couple weeks and it feels good to know that I still have the power. I tried not to destroy you, but it's hard to control a savage beast.

This battle you're fighting will never be won. I will not be contained, because I've decided that's who I want to be. I am the 2 percent that you speak of.           (I'd say it's even smaller.)

This is me alone... (I've lost count 2)

I sat outside my house, with the garage door down, so I could just be alone, and smoked a cigarette. It was nice, but I realized something...

I was talking about the "game" the other night. I understand now why I keep guys around, as friends. I've always thought I was independent; and honestly I am, but I'm keeping connections because I love to be wanted. I want to be the girl wanted by everyone. I want to be the girl you need around when you have something exceptional to say. And I'll be that.

It's my journalistic instincts coming out in me. I get to talk to everyone and get a little piece of who they are, and then when the job is done you keep into contact just in case you need them one night, but you're nothing more than the girl that got away. The girl they'd make out with, but never get attached to. A journalist is always a "friend with benefits."