Your partner bought two tickets to see BAND YOU ONLY HEAR NOW AT THE DMV & CVS. “What do I wear?” you wonder. Certainly, your CLOTHING ITEM YOU ROUTINELY SLEEP IN should be fine. On the day of the show, you take a nap so you’ll be fresh for the event. But you quickly feel yourself slipping into DARK EMOTIONAL STATE as circling to find parking drags on for TIME IT TAKES TO GET AWAY FROM BRAGGY NEIGHBOR AT THE SUPERMARKET.

You ADVERB remember why you stopped leaving the house for nonessential outings. Security wants to search your fanny pack. You pray they don’t confiscate your HUMILIATING ITEM.

“I hope there’s no opening act,” you grumble. “I want to be in bed by SUNSET + 15 MINUTES.”

Your partner forgot to mention the show is general admission, standing room only. You immediately mutter, “EXPLETIVE! I’m not wearing my SUPPORT ITEMS PURCHASED FROM INSTAGRAM ADS!"

There is an opening act, and they sound like SYNONYM FOR POOP. Of course, they perform for TIME IT TAKES TO COMPLETE REFINANCING PAPERWORK + “STAIRWAY TO HEAVENCOVER. So you go to the bar. You don’t recognize any of the beers. You choose an IPA called OBSCURE COLOR + NAME OF FICTIONAL HORSE. Your partner wants wine. It comes in a MATERIAL DESTROYING THE PLANET cup the size of a VESSEL SMALLER THAN A THIMBLE. These beverages cost more than AMOUNT YOU SPENT ON FIBER SUPPLEMENTS LAST MONTH. The headliner takes the stage, and for a moment you feel ADJECTIVE. Still, you’d give away NAME OF FAVORITE CHILD for a seat.

Instead of trying to score shrooms or weed, you spend much of the show asking fellow fans if they’re packing ANY BRAND OF PAIN RELIEVER. Once you’ve crushed your SYNONYM FORPRICEY brew and VERB your anti-inflammatory meds, you start to loosen up and enjoy the tunes.

You’re singing along when the woman beside you asks you to stop because she’s live on SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF and you’re scaring her followers. You think, “EXPLETIVE off!” But don’t want to start a fight, knowing you’re weaker than NAME OF YOUR NEIGHBOR’S CAT. The next song reminds you of the time NAME OF YOUR HIGH SCHOOL BULLY made fun of your BODY PART. You spend the rest of the show feeling like A DIFFERENT SYNONYM FOR POOP.

Your partner is willing to skip the third encore, they just need to use the restroom. The line snakes out to NAME OF COUNTY IN NEIGHBORING STATE. Thirty minutes later, you return to your EMBARRASSING, OUTDATED CAR to find a parking ticket tucked beneath your windshield wiper. You couldn’t read the street signs because your eyeglasses are THE LAST PLACE YOU’D THINK TO LOOK. You immediately shout, “EXPLETIVE!” Your partner frowns. “You’re cursing like CHARACTER IN ANY TARANTINO MOVIE tonight. Did you forget to take your FAVORITE ANTI-ANXIETY MED?”

You drive home in ADJECTIVE silence.

You ask the sitter if they take PAYMENT APP because not even BANK BEING INVESTIGATED BY THE FDIC has enough cash to cover this. You crawl into bed, ears ringing like you’ve spent all day working a EXPLETIVE buzzsaw.

Fast forward LENGTH OF TIME IT TAKES YOU TO FORGET THINGS. You’re at the post office when you hear BAND YOU JUST SAW and start to hum along. You remember the concert and think, “What a YET ANOTHER SYNOMYM FOR POOP night. We should do it again soon!”