One Lie, One Truth.

1. Mosh pits. I'm sure everyone's got a story about a mosh pit. Mine comes from a Dropkick Murphys concert I attended back in 2007. The Murphys announced the next song, their rendition of the Irish classic "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya." Thousands of voices combined to push one massive roar of approval. Ken Casey's sandpaper vocals began the song. A mandolin joined him, the strumming telling of a much older era of music.

The band exploded into auditory chaos. Distorted guitars ripped the air. The bass of the drums shook the space inside my chest cavity. The music controlled the crowd like a puppeteer living vicariously through his performers. The tornado of the master's hands pushed and pull their bodies in unison. A sea of flesh and concert t-shirts engulfed me. I was pushed, punched, and body slammed. I tasted sweat, and blood at times. My left foot stepped around the leg of another and threw me off balance, but before my ass could touch the ground, arms and hands from all around flung me to my feet. It was a mob of brothers, hurting and looking out for each other simultaneously.

The ringing in my ears lasted three days, longer than most of the bruises. The sensation of philanthropic violence has yet to fade, and I hope to God it never does.

2. My first cigarette was a menthol. My buddy had swiped two from his mom during the week, and we met behind the gas station down the block from his house to smoke 'em. Butts from previous visitors were strewn on the ground. The way the dull orange tubes congregated around a nearby bench reminded me of spent bullet casings around a machine gun nest. I wonder how many lives the rounds had claimed.

I put the filter to my lips and licked it. The taste of rotten toothpaste tugged at my stomach. I pulled out the lighter my mom uses for her scented candles and lit the cigarette. Smoke made its way down my virgin windpipe and I could feel the cold burn tightening the internal tissue. Before I could fully exhale I stared coughing. The smoke caught in my lungs prolonged the fit and ripped at my esophagus. I could sense the wet ash taste of phlegm hacking its way up the back of my throat, pushing the threshold of my nasal passages.

But I had to impress my friend. I suppressed my whooping and finished my cigarette. We walked back to my buddy's house and he put an arm around me.

"Don't worry, dude. Next time, we'll get regulars."