Dear Summer Music Festival Goers,
Hey there. Just wanted to open up and let you know that even though it’s been a while, I’ve been thinking about you. I know it’s a busy time of the year. Bonnaroo is this weekend, and I just wanted to wish you well on the extravagant weekend at hand while I endure just another weekend of regular ol’ summer.
Have fun spending 300-plus dollars on general admission alone. I’ll be spending a large (yet smaller) portion of my weekly paycheck on a casual night of Bud Lights and Uber rides to-and-fro’ 6th Street.
I’m so deprived.
Have fun finally experimenting with that one recreational drug you’ve been dying to try. I heard ecstasy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but you do you. You are capable of bigger and better things. I’ll be stuck getting a routine runner’s high off my three-mile, 20-minute treadmill run.
I’m so jealous of you.
Have the time of your life camping with tens and thousands of strangers. Hats off to you for going out of your comfort zone of your cookie cutter upbringing. I’ll be stuck at my mid-ranged apartment binge watching Netflix under the 68-degree air conditioning. Those porta-potties and sleeping bags sound delightful. I’ll continue gently placing toilet paper on the seat in the handicap stall.
Can we trade lives?
Have a blast seeing Billy Joel, Mumford & Sons, Florence + The Machine, and a large handful of other acts most people have never heard of nor care about. I’ll be stuck at work with access to 30 million commercial-free songs to my exact choosing on my MacBook Air — Spotify really is breaking my bank charging me a whole $9.99/month for such a service. Waiting five hours in advance to get a tenth row spot at Kendrick Lamar in hopes of a decent smash-hit social media post will be totally worth it.
Why haven’t I spontaneously hopped in my car yet?
Enjoy the metropolis that is Bumfuck Nowhere, Tennessee. I’ve heard the 80 percent humidity in 90-degree weather is especially pleasant in mid-June. I’m freezing my balls off at work today — whoever locked the AC at 67 deserves a pay cut. And when I have to leave my office and enter the similarly scorching heat in my locale, I’ll do my best to occupy myself with my apartment complex’s pool and jacuzzi that’s crawling with thirsty bachelorettes. Shit, I may have to discipline myself to a biceps-and-chest-only pump beforehand.
We should trade lives.
While you’re camping (“camping,” rather), enjoy your while-supplies-last diet of peanut butter, bread, and room temperature water. Cooking raw beef is potentially dangerous and time-consuming. I suppose I’ll have to order a pizza instead. Damn.
What am I still doing here in this suffocating cubicle?
Seriously, I salute you. Your parents are almost undoubtedly questioning your life’s financial and moral decisions this weekend, and thinking that you’re only attending because it allows you to re-experience the judge-free zone of college recklessness you’ve since graduated from, and/or because it looks like more fun on social media than the actual in-the-flesh experience actually is.
I look forward to seeing the inappropriately sized Facebook album about the experience in which you pretend to be an effortless hipster..
Image via Shutterstock