The first line of Miserable At Best by Mayday Parade is almost as triggering as the G note in Welcome To The Black Parade. I could be minding my own business, having a fine time being alive and then get bamboozled with "KaTiE dOn'T cRy" and just * c r u m b l e *. If you've ever had an emo phase, I'm so sorry, I know it's stuck in your head now. Ride it out.
This story is less about the shirt and more about the person that led me to the shirt and held me up through shirts to come. I first met Sierra in a suicide prevention group called Kennedy's Voice when I was 17. She was beautiful. Her skin was a road map of everywhere she'd been and conquered, her eyes saw the world in a way I'd never known, and her heart was coal that time had been pressured into diamonds. Neither of us were terribly social creatures, so it took months for us to actually hang out, and when we did, our first thought was to find the loudest concert possible to avoid awkward small talk. We kept in touch for awhile, sending concert pics and tour dates back and forth, but nothing to hold her closer than an acquaintance. Until Valentines Day of 2017.
If you've read my latest, "Chasing Chase Atlantic", this is where Rattata comes in. Rattata and I had Valentines Day plans, as most couples do, so I spent an hour and a half getting all dolled up for the occasion. As time would tell, I wasn't the only plans he had. I got a half-assed iMessage 10 minutes before our date saying he wasn't going to make it, and in the following hour, I went through all five stages of grief. Denial: "he's fucking with me, he's still coming." Anger: "that asshole, I shaved my legs for this." Bargaining: "maybe if I TELL him I shaved my legs, he'll come around." Depression: "no one cares about my smooth legs and the only thing left to do is wallow in self pity and dive face first into a tub of frozen, creamy calories." And finally, acceptance: "I should make other plans."
I called a few friends, all of which were out with their sweethearts or determined to stay home with their respective creamed calories. Then I saw a text I had send a few days prior, asking Sierra if she had seen the new Mayday Parade tour dates. A long shot, but worth a try, so I threw caution to the wind and she picked up on the first ring. Her boyfriend was in Amsterdam for the week and she wanted nothing more than to get out of the house. So, with no agenda in mind, we went. Before the night had ended, I had a new tattoo, we had sat in a sketchy park for several hours, and we were sure that we never wanted to be apart again. She was proud of my smooth legs. I was proud of her clean car. And we were happy.
Through gym memberships, nostalgic playlists and more boxes of mac and cheese than I can count, she was my person. Seeing as we had both grown up crying over Mayday Parade, is was a nonissue deciding we had to see them together. The concert grew closer and my relationship with Rattata grew colder every day. The Friday before the show, I got a DM from a girl I'd never seen, asking if I was dating a small purple rat. I said yes. She was too. My world fell apart. Sierra dropped everything and picked me up from work. The rest of the day was a blur, but I distinctly remember seeing her green car pull up to save me from myself.
I cried all day, into the night and on through the next morning. The concert was that evening. I pulled myself together, threw on a band shirt and held her hand the entire time. Two hours of ugly emotion later, she, I and my new back eye from the pit slowly made our way to the merch table, where we found matching baseball tees. That shirt, for me, is so much more than a shirt. That shirt is Sierra. We've cried on those shirts, we've danced in those shirts, we've stained those shirts with Taco Bell. And we don't talk as much as we used to...but she'll always be the other half of my emo broken heart. Katie...I'm crying.
♫
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