I Got 99 Problems And Bey’s Ticket Prices Are One
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Hov and Bey are determined to not let me be great. Five days ago, they announced their global OTR2 tour to the world and heads, including myself, lost their minds. I didn’t really want to see Jay-Z although Panama raved about his show in DC. But Yonce was going to get my coins. With a song in my heart, I called my very own “boy up top from the Bk who used to flip that money 3 ways” to see if he wanted to do the Bonnie and Clyde ’03 thing and of course he said yes.
Cool.
From my car, I had already begun to fantasize about the ensemble I would wear. I don’t know where I was going to find them but I was going to serve the children in the most fabulous gold shangalangs and lame leotard with black leather over-the-knee stiletto boots. I had until August. That would’ve been plenty of time to find my best Queen Bey get-up. Yes, I live in Florida. Of course, I know that it will be at least 732 degrees at night but my fux lacked severely. My newfound love of all things Mrs. Carter dictated I support her at all costs.
Needless to say when I received that coveted presale email in my inbox, I scrambled to the website to cop our tickets. The seats I selected came to a total of $407.70. These aren’t great seats. They’re ok seats in an outdoor stadium in a state where it rains like hell. Unlike Southern California where it NEVER rains. Evidently, they must’ve sent me the incorrect link because the nosebleed tickets were over a bill. My stomach bubbles a little when I ride the elevator to the second floor so I’ll be damned if I’m messing around in the section with the pigeons and thin air. Now, I’m not with the shits so when it comes to paying for the sometimes lavish or frivolous things I want to do; I’ll happily pay. However, the responsible adult in me asked out loud, “Are these niggas crazy?”
I, wholeheartedly, believe in securing the bag but I shouldn’t have to sell my only child, kidneys, retinas and a left tittie to help them do it. Bey’s all next-level Birkin and I’m only at Gucci status. I get in where I fit in. Where are the subsidized tickets though? I would’ve paid a smooth $250 even $275 but there is a literal block in my spirit which prevents me from crossing that $300 threshold. Three hundred dollars is a car payment or groceries. I’ll fuck off $299 at a 5 star steakhouse but these tickets? Nah bruh. Priorities, people!
I’m not knocking anybody who’s going. It’s just not my portion. Besides, I thought me and Bey were better than this. It’s cool. On the night of the concert, I’ll be sitting in the sala in a shiny ass onesie lamenting over what could’ve been while drinking lemonade.
Originally published at Negra With Tumbao.
