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I went to go smoke, came back and we got in the special handicap line. A few moments later we were just a few feet away from Stephen with a very large and very angry mob of peasant fanboys behind us. Some people have to chose to either get an autograph or a picture since waiting in line for three hours means you might miss your photo-op time. For the rich, the handicap and the pregnant, lines are of no concern. We walked up to Stephen, everyone got autographs (I was able to get two because he was only charging $60 and I had exactly $120 left to my name) and we headed over to the photo-op stations. Michelle and I put on our “Team Stephen” and “Team Robbie” hats and got in line. Without Heather by our side, we had to wait with the poor losers of the world. Luckily, Stephen was in a rush so everything was quick.

Michelle and I got our Stephen/Robbie combo picture taken, I threw myself all over Robbie one last time and we went to the printing station. Picture printed, digital copy sent and my day was basically over. Because of the blonde angel’s generosity the night before and Stephen Amell’s desire to please fans for missing half the convention (which I imagine is why he was only charging $60 an autograph), I was left with exactly the money I needed to get the two Stephen Amell autographs I wanted. The only thing left to do for the day was see Stephen Amell’s panel, the crown jewel of convention moments that fans had waited all day for.

Some fans spent several hundred dollars to sit in VIP seats at the panel in nicely organized chairs in front of the stage. The other few thousand fans had to stand around the VIP section like bloodthirsty zombies outside a mall in Dawn of the Dead. This would be the final time Heather’s “disability” would come in handy. Because of her, we were able to inch up towards a disability section near the front of the crowds. It was here that I noticed right on stage, as promised, was my blonde angel. I screamed out to her and held my “Team Robbie” hat up in the air. She turned her head, squinted and started laughing once she realized who I was.

My friends were ballistic, shocked that I actually saw Stephen Amell’s assistant again and that she saw me in the crowd. I yelled up to her, “Get me on stage!!!” She said she couldn’t get people up there and then, because I’m an asshole, I made the “smoking a joint” gesture and told her to think about it. My formerly happy friends were now, once again, disappointed in me. Since I was screaming a conversation between myself and Stephen Amell’s assistant, it was viewed as poor taste to very publicly make any mention of weed. I felt embarrassed that my friends were upset so I kept my head down and looked at convention pictures on my phone.

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