The first stage: sheer bliss. It’s 10 a.m. Tickets are on sale. HOW LUCKY WE ARE TO BE ALIVE RIGHT NOW.
The second stage: talking yourself down. I mean, of course Ticketmaster is slow. Everyone is trying. Everyone is failing. It’s fine. Give it a minute.
The third stage: panic. Because I have a meeting now. I have to focus on meeting stuff and not be Hamiltixing.
The fourth stage: chaos reigns. I have Chrome and Safari both running searches and the Ticketmaster app on my phone. Nothing is showing any sign of life.
The fifth-and-a-half stage: cursing whoever created that robot check function on Ticketmaster. STOP ADDING MORE HOUSE NUMBERS, YOU FUCK.
The fifth stage: giving away my very soul. I call. ON THE PHONE EVEN.
The sixth stage: anguish. No luck, and people are posting their successes on Facebook.
The seventh stage: self-loathing. I did this. I did this to myself. I didn’t wait long enough on the page before I got out and started over this morning. Why was I so impatient? WHAT HAVE I DONE? I THREW AWAY MY SHOT.
The eighth stage: drinking.
The ninth stage: more drinking.
The 10th stage: I don’t know. I don’t know what comes next. Now I’ll never be in the room where it happens.
UPDATE: The 11th stage: You finally manage to score tickets. Limited view (they’re all limited view at this point) BUT A WEEKEND.