Wednesday, September 30th.
“I smell like a gym locker,” I scream over One Direction.
Jenny laughs and motions that she is, too, afflicted with this condition. We’re perched like birds in the upper echelons of the O2, a stadium that is currently filled with five thousand screaming girls, two thousand screaming women, one hundred adult men, and me and Jenny clutching each other whenever Liam, Niall or Harry pop up on the big screen.
From our nosebleed seats, One Direction looks like a cluster of beautiful, tiny Polly Pocket dolls, but their visages blown up onto the two massive screens on either side of the stage cause us to go into literal fits of passion.
The mix of screaming and deep, chesty gasps is making the oxygen thin in the stadium, and the temperate is rising, making me steam like a lobster in my—very attractive—Zara, olive green bomber jacket that I had bought two hours previous.
As I hoarsely screech out the words to “Through the Dark,” I can’t believe that I’m actually here because who the fuck would’ve thought that I would buy tickets to a One Direction concert?
Answer: probably everyone. Except for…me.
It was a very spur of the moment, “I’m in London once why am I not going to seize this great experience by the balls” decision to purchase the ticket and even more of a spur of the moment decision to buy a $60 jacket to go along with my outfit. But I looked FUCKING AMAZING so really I think the decisions proved to be good.
We are easily older than everyone else in our area—barring moms—by at least four years, and while that fact would’ve made me feel embarrassed in a normal situation, apparently this One Direction concert veers into the fantastical because not only did we not give a flying fuck, we also danced like maniacs and screamed a multitude of sins towards the boys that were not appropriate for our surroundings but are perfectly appropriate to discuss right now:
And also if you’ve ever read 1D fan fiction, you know that me screaming, “Liam, murder my vagina!” is definitively not the worst thing that these kids have ever heard. Oops, I gave away which one was mine. Now the mystique is gone.
Also I wanted to name this post “Murder My Vagina, Liam Payne,” but I feel like that would be a “negative” in the vast Internet presence I am trying to cultivate.
One Direction is so good that it hurts and I took, like, a 100-second Snapchat story, which I cannot confirm because of the Snapchat update making the actual number-count obsolete. Once again, the new Snapchat update is getting in the way of legitimate journalism.
I felt more like a local navigating the tube after the concert, switching between different Underground lines. Nothing makes you feel like more of a goddamn badass than making a successful transfer. Coupled with my sleek, chic outfit and glasses, I felt like I looked like a local. Until I open my mouth and my American accent comes squawking out, I can—almost—pass.
Afterwards, Jenny and I went to a bar and danced with other people in our study abroad program until I finally went home at around 2 am, having gone on a muthafucking BUS and not getting stabbed. I don’t even use buses at home. I don’t even know if I know how to use the buses at home. I am truly a Londoner and will not accept any claims to the contrary. Or any clams.
All in all, One Direction was a total win and I’m so glad I got to go and I even spent essentially the entire day with Jenny—well, like fourteen hours—and I didn’t want to stab her by the end or anything! Which is…progress? It means I’m a maturing human?