Don't marry a Phish-head.

Dear Darlings,

There is not much to this piece of advice. There’s nothing to read into - unless you’re just trying to read the word Phish and understand why it is spelled like that in the phirst place. Do not marry a Phish-head. If you do, your life will follow a sequence similar to the following:

Early on in your relationship you will spend dates at five hour concerts where the songs all sound the same, even though your partner assures you that they are in fact different because that last one was called “Bouncing Around The Room” and this one is actually “Punch You In The Eye.”  

And you will say, “Oh sorry. My mistake.”

But inside you will be thinking, “What in the actual hell is this and how do I get out of it?”

And then you will go into a weird head space where you wonder if it’s the drugs or just an alternate reality that you are actually in. You will zone in and out while people are talking about noodles and hot dogs and you will wonder if this is edible food they are discussing or something that you do. Like maybe drugs. Yes maybe they are nicknames for drugs and you are so old now that you aren’t even up on the drug lingo. And then there will be so many lights and tie-dye that it will make you wonder if you ever really did drugs at all. Maybe this is real.

Oh my God what if this is real?!

And then there will be a big finale and everyone will cheer and it will be over. FINALLY. Except it won’t be. It will only be the intermission. Repeat last paragraph.

Then eventually it will actually be over and you will weep with relief on your way home, while your beloved tells stories about the AMAZING things that transpired that you truly don’t recall ever happening. Were you at the same show? Because you are 90 percent confident that it was just one hellaciously long guitar solo with the same light show on repeat.

And then years later you will be married and you will have lots of plans for the summer. Great family plans. Like camping and road trips and beach days and real fishing with an F. But this will all be thwarted because phucking Phish will still be together and will come to town. Again. And they won’t just come to town, they’ll go all over the damn state and then the rest of the country and instead of strategizing about which route to take for your family vacation, your spouse will build an itinerary for which cities are best to celebrate a meatstick. And he or she will go for up to a week at a time with phellow phans to the same show, days in a row, with excitement and anticipation (and let’s be honest - some stupidity) about how each performance may be different.

By this point you will be much wiser since your first show. Your spouse will not be. So you will choose to stay home. But please note; you may also be stuck alone with children and a dog and all of the AMAZING stories that your husband or wife comes home with. That are exactly the same as they were ten years ago. And then a veeeeeery small part of you will wish you were there. With the lights and the tie-dye and the drugs.