Firstly, I hope this blog never reaches the eyes of my manager.

But if it does—well, here’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for a long time now:

Fuck you.

It’s the end of the year, and that time to look back on all the experiences we had this year has come. And I must say that the turning point of this year was one festival.

Warped Tour was the most incredible experience of my 2025 so far, and it is not due to the reasons you probably think. Let’s rewind a little.

belonging to something greater

Ever since I dove headfirst into the punk rock genre, shifting my clean-cut K-pop songs worshipped for so long into something gradually deeper—I mean, an escapegoat, comfort music, the type that runs down your veins and drowns your screams when nothing feels right and you just want to yank a glass against the wall (hope that doesn’t sound too emo). Because that was me yesterday.

Shifting my music offered me a place where I feel like I finally belong, which is the most sought-after sensation when you leave your family and friends behind to live in another country. This not only shifted the group of people I surrounded myself with, but also my view of my body, my fashion, the world around me, and my projections of what I want career-wise.

Now that that’s laid on the table, let’s rewind to April, when I met the amazing crew I work with today: Ben, my boss (I love you, boss), Cailin, who became one of my closest friends, and Nashe, who came down the line with his recreational misogyny antics—which my Ronnie Radke heart basks in (my blog, I won’t hold back). More than a project to work on, they gave me a place to be myself. And isn’t that what we’re all searching for in a group of friends?

With these folks coming into my life, so did the news: Warped Tour was back.

the return of warped tour

Listen, I had this vision of Warped Tour: small stages, intimate experiences, bands and artists walking around the festival as if the community was one whole. There are no barriers between artists and fans, which in the K-pop world is completely the opposite. There is a chasm between the groups and their fans, which now is probably due to globalization and the rise of groups like Twice and BTS. You probably can’t have J-Hope walking around a festival without causing a major commotion. But oh well—you can definitely exchange a word or two with Craig Mabbitt under the blistering sun of Orlando. And perhaps that’s what attracted me the most. That sense of community. Intimacy.

I used to watch old Escape the Fate cams in the absolute worst video quality inhumanly possible—probably three pixels per centimeter of screen. And I basked in that. How raw it looked. How the crowd was rowdy and careless. And I sought that in those clips, those little thirty minutes of lunchtime at this miserable fucking job. This purposeless 9-to-5. Held in a chokehold by a hand that kept shoving me into this tiny box. I couldn’t breathe—I can barely breathe here as I am writing from this office (or should i call it a deposit for empty boxes and mediocre dreams).

Those little relics of a time where people cared less breathed air through my lungs. But the fact that I could not go to this event knocked the air right out of it.

hi officer! it’s me again

Warped Tour had three stops this year, and none of them were on Canadian soil.

The reason I could not go was because my U.S. visa had expired, and the wait time was around a year. I had already made my appointment, and the earliest would be in January 2026.

Honestly, the worst part was that the fault wasn’t on this country’s bureaucracy, but solely on me.

Regret never felt so bitter. I waited at least six months after my visa expired to apply for another one. If I had applied earlier. If I had done it. If I had known it—I couldn’t know. How would I know? Fuck. Every day was a guilt trip, blaming myself in a loop of guilt that I even hooked my parents into. My friends already had tickets for the Long Beach stop, and here I was, left to watch livestreams. No. Fucking no way.

So here’s the thing: when I want something, I want it bad. I obsess over it. I become relentless. Restless.

The consulate knew me by name. Everyday calls. 8 a.m. sharp. No earlier appointments. Every day, over and over again. I needed that visa. I already had it before—was it so fucking hard? Why did I need to have an interview? Frustration on top of frustration. Can’t cross the fucking border. Before, I couldn’t care less. Now it was the end of the fucking world.

I was obsessed. I was stressed. I couldn’t breathe at work. I couldn’t rest at home. I was a mess.

“let’s rewind, back to the time–2025, i almost died”

Then it snapped. (And I really mean snapped.)

The next thing I know, I am laid on a hospital bed. Terrified.

Suddenly my visa felt so small next to the tear in my appendix.

I’m about to be cut open for the first time in my life by this strange man in white. Alone. Nobody is waiting for me in the waiting room.

Mom’s on the plane. I send her a message—one that says I love you, I’ll see you soon, but not entirely sure of it. Just in case. We never know.

That stupid big light is the last thing I see. And honestly, it could have been.

Well, if I hadn’t woken up with the remnants of morphine in my veins, stitches in my belly, and this legendary sentence coming out of my mouth:

“I’m late—fuck, I’m late for the show!”

“Dear, you’re okay.”

“Nurse, you don’t understand. I bought meet and greet. I’m meeting Ronnie, I—”

“You just had surgery. Lay back down.”

Oh.

Well, at least I wasn’t late. Big win.

Jokes aside, it was pretty scary and kind of life-changing to think I could’ve died (or even scarier to think that my first concern after waking up from surgery was being late to meet Ronnie Radke—okay, that’s funny). Anyways—

Let’s skip the mother-daughter reunion, my healing period—which brought me a lot of clarity and helped me value the small things in life, such as being able to take a shower by myself.

And then… we stop right here:

The day my manager allowed me to spend two months in my home country. Or even better: the day Ben dropped me off in front of my house a day before my flight and I said, “See you guys in two months! I’m going to Warped Tour!” Or maybe even the day I walked out of the American consulate in Rio with my passport in my hands.

I had everything. I was healthy, pretty, happy. And I was fucking going to Warped Tour.

i have it all… except the guts (literally)

But then I returned to Canadian soil after an insane stop for an incredible show in Toronto (which I was not late for—in fact, I was one of the first ones to arrive, if I may say): God Is a Weapon Tour. But this is a talk for another day.

Then I was back to the gray life. But I had everything I wanted—now what?

My friends had already been to Long Beach, and they couldn’t afford to go again. I was about to flip a table at my job and simply quit like I’d been meaning to for a year now, but I couldn’t. I had a home and everything I built for it.

I had the money. I had the visa. Why was I so hesitant to buy the tickets?

Then hesitancy seeped in. Then, at one meeting, Ben said, “Tickets are $100 for Orlando. Grab it.” And hell, I did. I never bought something on impulse like those tickets. Crashed down, and it’s on video, which is embarassing.

Okay, I had the tickets. Now what? The flight. But to book the flight, I needed the time off.

Requesting it was a guilt trip. I tried and tried, yet still felt like I was placing my wishes ahead of my manager’s, which made me feel like a burden to her. What a life-draining motherfucker, isn’t she? The moment I waited for, the moment I longed for—you’re denying it because sitting here and producing nothing purposeful all day is more important than experiencing a festival I swore was impossible to attend.

It was a dark time in my life. I had everything I wanted, yet not the courage to let things go. I didn’t know I needed to lose what I swore was most important to me here in this country to do what I truly wanted. I wanted to quit my job, say fuck it. I wanted to go to Warped Tour. I wanted it all. I wanted more than this meaningless job. I wanted something more valuable than money: freedom.

the great escape

So I let go of what was most important to me: my house.

Hey—hold on. I’m not telling you to say fuck it and use your rent money to pay for festival tickets.

My mind was finally clear. I had a bigger plan. And Warped was just part of it.

I reached out to a friend who was renting a room. I gave my notice, and then the next day I had financial freedom to go wherever I desired. That was just the first step.

All was right, except I wasn’t granted time off (or rather, my manager guilt-tripped me into thinking her interests were greater than mine). I had one week before the d-day when I sat down with my feelings. Meditated. Pondered the risks and consequences of calling in sick for two days. Wondered if I should just give up. I couldn’t risk losing my job a week before turning two years at the company. I had responsibilities. I’ve always been good, never reckless. Always did things by the book. The golden child. The treasure of the family—

Then this verse from All Time Low’s Weightless struck my earphones like lightning in my head:

This could be all I’ve waited for
This could be everything, I don’t wanna dream anymore
Maybe it’s not my weekend, but it’s gonna be my year
And I’ve been going crazy, I’m stuck in here

So I smiled. That kind of smile that says fuck it.

I won’t let anyone take what I’ve fought so hard for. I won’t let fear stop me from doing what I was meant to do- scrath that, I was given the miraculous chance to do.

Ticket’s booked. Friday night, ten to six. Leave work: “See you guys Monday!”—knowing very well I wouldn’t.

Grab the luggage waiting for me by my door. Head to the airport. Last chance to back off. All work contacts blocked, profile private. Boarding begins. I hold my breath, tighten my hand around my backpack, and realize that, well, this might really be The Great Escape.

this one is foryou

Mrs. Guilttrip, if you lost so much of your precious time to read until here with those wide eyes of yours, the ones you give me every time I oppose your opinions or don’t swing your way, those eyes I loathe so much might be wondering how I could have done such a betrayal to you, once you’ve always been there for me. Or at least you convinced yourself of that, just like you convinced yourself that you are a good person.

Guess what? Paraphrasing my guy: my blood runs black. I am not your friend—just like you’ve never been to me. Doing deals with you is like dealing with the devil, and you keep me on a leash made of guilt, like everybody else.

Here’s my honest message: you’re not the person you think you are.

I learned with your fucked up mind that I’d rather be loved than feared.

So, honestly, I hope one day,
when I’m far beyond your reach,
you know that I woke up in Orlando that morning,
you fucking bitch.