I remember being 18 years old, a freshman at UNT and my friends and I thinking that we totally had Denton figured out. We spent our evenings eating J&J’s pizza off of paper plates on the courthouse lawn and drinking mocha and mint milkshakes from Jupiter House before heading off to a show at Hailey’s to catch Mouse Parade or Explosions in the Sky or Flickerstick. I would make sure my cash and ID were ready, knowing that my hand was about to be stamped with ink that would take days to get off, which would alert the bartender that I was not old enough to enjoy the beer that everyone around me was drinking. We would hunt down house shows in ramshackle rent houses on Bernard Street, or in some kid’s apartment on Avenue G, hoping that the cops wouldn’t bust it because of too many cars on the street or the music being too raucous. We would roll into our dorm rooms sometime before dawn, peeling off our clothes that reeked of smoke and sweat and spilled beer - and close our eyes, too tired to wash the smell off of our bodies.