*[This works as alliteration because the k in Knoebel’s is not silent. BAM.]
“STOP IT!”
“PLEASE DON’T GET A TICKET!”
“I DON’T WANT TO DANCE!”
“I FEEL LIKE I’M TEACHING A KID HOW TO DRIVE!”
“TURN IT DOWN!”
“NO I DON’T WANT TO SEE HOW U DRIVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE!”
“SETTLE DOWN!”
-Things Henry said while I drove us home from dropping off the rental car.
It’s not often that I get to drive the Great Professional Driver anywhere, so I really lived it up. Unfortunately, he doesn’t believe that dancing belongs in moving vehicles.
Granted, my dancing is more like a walk through a mental institution, but still.
I guess I’ll just have my Pierce the Veil dance party at home with Marcy, then.
—————
We listened to EVERY SINGLE PIERCE THE VEIL album on the 4 hour drive to Knoebel’s and Henry actually didn’t complain (that changed once I did a clandestine disc-change and he realized we were then listening to Dance Gavin Dance) until I started comparing him to Vic Fuentes.
“I wish you were more like Vic,” I sighed. “I bet he’s such a great boyfriend.”
“He’d never be around!” Henry pointed out.
“Yeah, but he would be writing pretty songs about me so it wouldn’t matter,” I reasoned.
But then Henry and I looked at each other and laughed because we both know that if I was Vic’s girlfriend, his darkly romantic songs would take a quick turn to “IFUCKINGHATETHATBITCH” death metal territory.
At Knoebel’s, there is a pavilion that has a roof shaped like a giant cake. One side of it says “Congratulations!”
“Ugh, that makes me think of [“Currents Convulsive*”],” I said dramatically to Henry, kicking at the gravel. “I wish I was listening to it RIGHTNOW.
” And then I devoted a few moments to acting like a moody teenager and even said, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” to Henry, further perpetuating my stereotype. (“Scene kid” in case you forgot.)
*[In real life, I actually just said “That one PTV song” because Henry is too old to know song titles.]
This song has officially gone from making me cry over 2008 to making me reminding how much fun this past weekend was. Another finger removed from its death grip on the past.