It was never supposed to be like this. All I wanted was my water bottle, man. Now I’m alone, all alone.
It all happened so fast. My boys and I were looking swole as fuck in our bro tanks as we ran into the tent all confident-like. We were a unit, man, running and screaming like a pack of hyenas about to tackle the dank carcass of the DM dance floor.
Before we could go to town and dance for a cause or whatever, our crew had to get hydrated. If you’re going to dance your ass off, after all, you need to gulp down some of that H20. And hey, DM was giving away free water bottles. Sounds like a dope deal to me.
Retrieving the bottle was where shit started to go wrong. Right off the bat, the bottles were housed in some weird crates. Earth to DM: they’re plastic, not glass. This kind of irked me, but the worst part was that the bottles were organized by name. Seems cool, right? Wrong. All of us who participate in DM aren’t doing this alone. We’re not psychopaths. We need our crews in order to not go crazy or pass out like a pussy.
Because of this dumbass sorting system, my boys and I scattered like cool kids at a pep rally and went to pick up our separate bottles. This was the tip of the shitstorm-iceberg, as I would soon find out.
I triumphantly grabbed my bottle, having pushed aside some dorky kids who were here with their dorm. Watered up and ready to go, I turned back to reunite with my crew and prepare to find a coveted corner of the tent to dance in (corners are the best cause they’re dark and you can slack off dancing when that 30-hour dance thing happens).
At that point they were gone. My boys, the dorks, everyone. My eyes darted around the immediate area, desperately searching for my crew. I broke into a sweat as I couldn’t find anyone in my group.
After a good 20 seconds of optical surveillance, I realized that I looked ridiculous. “Relax!” I thought, “You look like a damn fool!”
I decided that I needed to look more natural. I grabbed my clutch fanny-pack (which housed manly shit like food, ‘cause why not?) with my free hand and continued to dart my eyes in a manner that conveyed furious diligence AND subtlety. “Yeah,” I thought. “Nobody can tell that I lost my clique. I probably even look like Ryan Gosling in Drive.”
Thirty more seconds passed, and I began to realize that I looked more like Ryan Gosling in Lars and the Real Girl. The sweat resumed. I had to find my boys. I knew I was nothing without my friends to validate my ironically over-the-top dancing. I released my vice-like grip on my fanny-pack and plunged into the nearest crowd of people.
I was lost in a crowded mob, my boys nowhere to be found, and it was all because of that damn water bottle. Damn you, water bottle, damn you.