Lin-Manuel Miranda’s, Hamilton, Ruined My Life

Where should I begin? I guess I’ll start on the drive to Cincinnati. My wife and I had been driving for almost an hour. She hadn’t spoken a word to me, but instead had spent the car ride using up all of our data while scrolling Instagram. It wasn’t until I accidentally hit a pothole and spilled coffee onto her purse did she finally acknowledge my existence. She compared my driving to an “asshole” and told me to hurry up and drive faster. A few miles before we reached the city we got stuck in a severe traffic jam. Even though I couldn’t drive more than a few miles an hour, a semi driver rode my ass and started honking his horn. My wife got pissed and flipped him off. I could tell that her actions probably only made the situation worse, and I was right. While we came to a complete stop, the semi driver exited his trailer and proceeded towards my car. He went to the front of my vehicle and dumped an entire Mountain Dew bottle worth of chewed tobacco and spit all over my windshield. Then he grabbed his groin and told me to, “eat shit.” My wife laughed at me and began to berate me for not defending myself. I turned on my windshield wipers but it only smeared the tobacco residue all over and disrupted my visual of the road. I had to stick my head out the window, in freezing conditions, for the rest of the drive.

When we arrived in downtown Cincinnati I had a lot of trouble trying to find overnight parking. My wife refused to help me and smoked a cigarette instead. Still having my head hanging out the window, I spotted a traffic cop and asked him for help. He looked at me, his eyes widened, and he asked, “Jesus Christ son, what the hell is wrong with your hair?” I reached up and could tell that some of my thin hair had blown off of my head and the rest of it was completely frozen. The cop started blowing his whistle at a jaywalker and was of little help. I continued riding around town with my head out of the window. I eventually spotted a parking garage about three blocks from our hotel and decided to park there without checking whether or not it was an overnight garage. As we exited the garage, my wife handed me all of her luggage and made me carry them as she smoked another cigarette. Having slipped a disc in my back the day before, carrying several bags of heavy luggage was extremely painful. We had several blocks to walk and my wife was already several paces in front of me. I asked her to slow down but she ignored me. After a few minutes, she was already a block ahead of me.

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I eventually lost sight of her, so I took a break to rest my sore back. I wiped off my forehead, as the ice on my hair had begun to melt and drip all over my face. I tried doing a few back stretches but the pain was intolerable. I noticed my right leg was going numb from sciatica nerve pain. I gathered up the luggage and began walking again, this time with a limp. I grimaced in pain with each step. At one point I completely collapsed in front of a restaurant. The patrons inside started taking pictures of me and laughing. I had an excessive amount of melted ice all over my face and shoulders. I had also lost complete feeling in my right leg and was now dragging it along. On top of that, I was carrying three, bright pink pieces of my wife’s luggage, and a Paw Patrol backpack that my wife had packed my belongings in. I tried my best not to cry and headed toward the hotel. By the time I got to the hotel, I discovered that my wife had already gone up to the room and had left me in the lobby. I called her to ask her for the room number. She replied, “#745, but I’m getting in the shower, so you’re going to have to wait.” Of course, the elevator was broken so I had to climb seven flights of stairs. I got to the room and knocked, but my wife was still in the shower. I sat down in the hallway and rested. An hour later, she finally came to the door to let me in. She was dressed and ready to leave and yelled at me, “hurry the hell up!” I had only five minutes to get ready for the show.

I took a comb through my thin hair (what was left of it), brushed my teeth and put on my wrinkled clothes. I went to the bedroom and told my wife that I thought she looked beautiful. Instead of complimenting me, she scolded me for having wrinkled clothes and told me I was an embarrassment. I tilted my head down in shame and proceeded to the show. We arrived about ten minutes early so my wife immediately went to the bar and bought a couple of beers. She drank both of them, leaving me to drink from the communal drinking fountain. We got in to the seating area just in time. Our seats were in the balcony, right in the center of the seating, which meant there were about thirty people to each side of us. We climbed over several people, annoying many as we passed by. When we sat down, my wife whispered to me that I had purchased the worst seats possible. When I told her they cost me almost five hundred dollars, she asked, “that’s it?” I couldn’t please her if I tried. The lights went out and the show began. I was pleasantly surprised by the performance and really enjoyed the story-telling of Alexander Hamilton’s life. When I was finally relaxed and comfortable, my wife told me that she had to go pee. I told her to try and wait until intermission but she was in no mood to argue and demanded I go with her. She grabbed my hand and escorted me out of the row. I could barley see in the dark and kept stumbling over people as I passed by them. People were visibly angry and she eventually let go of my hand and left me to fend for myself. About half way across the row, my leg went numb again and I fell into the crowd. I fell on top of a heavyset man, landing my hands on his groin. He immediately grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the balcony. I gasped for air and began smacking his arms to let go of me. He eased up and tossed me to the side. I gathered enough strength to crawl out of the row.

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When I finally reached the hallway, I discovered my wife was missing. I sat on a bench and waited for about ten minutes before finally deciding to go to the bathroom. As I entered the men’s room, I noticed a faint smoke coming from the women’s room and I could tell by the scent of Menthol American Spirits that it was my wife smoking a cigarette. I rolled my eyes and entered the bathroom. The bathroom smelled of death. It kind of smelled like a mix of cabbage, burnt popcorn and gasoline. I could tell that whoever was in the stall was responsible for the smell. The sounds coming from the other side of the stall door sounded like a scene from a war movie. It was loud and disturbing. I hurried up and tried to get out of there as quickly as possible. As I was washing my hands the stall door opened and out came, Lin-Manuel Miranda, the creator of Hamilton. I was in shock and uttered the words, “Your show is amazing.” He looked at me through the mirror and asked, “then why in the hell are you in here?” He dried off his hands, let out a robust fart and left the bathroom. I was in disbelief at what had just occurred.

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“Then why in the hell are you in here?”

By the time I got back to the show it was already intermission. I walked to my seat to find that my wife wasn’t there. I scrolled Instagram for a few minutes, noticing that my wife had posted several selfies of her, “having a great time.” One picture was of her in the bathroom, holding up a peace sign and wearing a dog nose and ears. Another picture was of her in front of the Hamilton sign wearing rabbit ears, with a hashtag that read, “blessed.” I shook my head in disbelief and put my phone away. My wife showed up carrying two beers and her vape pen. She informed me that the beers were hers and that I smelled like a bag of popcorn drenched in gasoline. I tried explaining that it was Lin-Manuel Miranda’s fault but she wasn’t buying it. She turned away from me and took a selfie. The show started off with an epic rap battle and I was drawn to the artistry of the performance. My wife handed me two empty bottles of beer and demanded that I go buy her two more. I informed her that I wanted to watch the rest of the show and that I didn’t want to walk in front of the audience. She said, “get your ass up, and get me beer, or I’ll divorce you and take the kids.” I reluctantly got up and began the long trek across the row of people.

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Everybody let out a sigh as I passed and some held their nose because I smelled like Lin-Manuel Miranda’s shit. When I got to the big guy, I tried my best to avoid falling on him. I leaned far back, but I accidentally went too far and fell over the balcony. My belt got caught on the bar and ripped a large tear in my pants, but thankfully caught my fall. Now I was hanging upside down from the top balcony, with a giant tear in my pants, exposing my underwear. I had fallen during a very loud scene so not many people even noticed that I was hanging there. A few ushers rushed over and whispered up to me that they would go get help. The head usher came over and told me that if it was alright with me that they would just leave me hanging there until the show was over. Apparently, they didn’t want to disrupt the performers. So, I spent the next hour hanging there like some sort of pathetic asshole. By the time the show was over I was dizzy and ready to cry. During the standing ovation, my pant leg finally ripped apart and I fell to the floor, knocking myself out cold.

I woke up to find Lin-Manuel Miranda standing over me. “So we meet again,” he said. I was in an ally behind the theatre. “If you ever try and ruin my production again, I’ll fucking kill you,” and then he took the cash from my wallet and left me there in a puddle of water. It took me a few minutes to regain my strength and pull myself off the ground. My back was in extreme pain and my sciatic nerve was causing horrible numbness in both of my legs. I walked out of the ally by dragging both of my feet across the pavement. I was only wearing my underwear and my left eye wouldn’t stop twitching. I stumbled into the streets of Cincinnati and attempted to find my way back to the hotel. I walked by a group of people outside of a bar and they spit on me and hurled insults in my direction. They were in town for an Eric Church concert and were all wearing cowboy hats and boots. One girl put a cowboy hat on top of my head and gave me her boots. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “you poor thing.” I looked into her eyes and could tell that she cared. I hadn’t felt that kind of compassion in years. I thanked her and continued on my way. I was a half-naked, eye twitching, cowboy with a long journey ahead of me.

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When I arrived back to the hotel I spotted my wife on the balcony smoking another cigarette. I went inside and climbed the seven stories up to the room. When she opened the door she looked me up and down in disgust, but I couldn’t really blame her. My eye was twitching out of control, I was hunched over with back pain, and wearing underwear, a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. “You’re sleeping on the couch,” she said. I walked inside and collapsed onto the couch. I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until about two in the morning to the sound of the air conditioner. The vent was right above my face and was cranked to full strength. I had no blanket or pillow. I attempted to get up but my legs were now useless and I fell to the floor. I gave up and curled up into the fetal position, using the cowboy hat as a makeshift blanket. I dreamt of the girl at the bar but I was abruptly awaken to the sound of my wife changing the liquid nicotine in her vape pen. “Let’s go,” she said. I crawled off the floor and grabbed my Paw Patrol bag. I got dressed and proceeded to the lobby for some coffee.

My wife and I quietly, and gently, walked to the parking garage. I asked her if she had a good time and she emphatically said, “no.” When we got to the parking garage I found that I had three parking tickets on my car. Apparently it wasn’t an overnight garage. The tickets totaled over three hundred dollars. On top of that, someone had broken into my car and stolen all of my Zoloft pills from my glove box. I had never missed a dose of my Zoloft and immediately started having a panic attack. I asked my wife to drive but she refused and spent the car ride home hashtagging all of her pictures from her “exciting trip to Cincinnati.” I attempted breathing exercises but they weren’t working and my anxiety worsened. Around Dayton I decided I couldn’t take it anymore and opened up the door and threw myself out of the car. I rolled for what seemed like a quarter mile until finally coming to rest on the curb of the interstate. I looked up to see that my wife had somehow regained control of the car and continued driving home. I sat up and flagged over for some help from a semi driver. The driver thankfully pulled over and came to my aid. Unfortunately for me, the driver was the same guy who had poured chewing tobacco all over my windshield the day before. He grabbed me up off the pavement and threw me over his shoulder. “Me and the boys are gonna have some fun with you,” he said in a creepy, redneck voice. He placed me in the bed of his truck and closed the door. As he drove away he turned on the Hamilton soundtrack and started calling his buddies talking about “fresh meat.” I started to have another panic attack and eventually passed out.

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And that is why you should never take your wife to see Hamilton. Instead, enjoy this amazing show by yourself and make sure to get an aisle seat. 

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