June 26th 2014
Story originally written and experienced: June 19th-June 22nd 2014
I went away. To a music festival.
A small one.
With some badass people. In a badass place.
And it was epic. And it was dirty. And it was fun.
But only because.
We dined like champions:
Spent quality time with long-lost amigos:
Soaked in the scenery:
Pre-gamed like animals:
Went to a silent disco for an undisclosed amount of time and didn’t pass an ounce of judgment.
Caught up on the glory days:
Spontaneously concocted a make-shift salon since the nearest shower was a mere 2 miles away:
Saw a lot of balls:
And alas, gave rogue shoulder rides to an excited lady hippie…only to realize she left more than just a thank you note behind…
The trip was 4 days but it sort of felt like 8. We saw some shit. Did some shit. Didn’t shower. Barely ate. Drank a lot. And danced a lot too—solely surviving on the basics of good friends. Chips. 2 t-shirts and a tent to call home.
Clean porta potties were a luxury, non-soggy bread was a treat and any semblance of a decent physical appearance was theoretically thrown out the fucking window.
Because quite frankly.
And I guess the strangest thing about the whole experience wasn’t just the music, the booze, Bob Saget
Or even Optimus Prime in his PJs.
But rather realizing.
How little you really need to stay happy. have fun. and just care a lot less.
How peanut butter sandwiches and 5 hour energies can count as breakfast and sleeping on the ground can feel pretty awesome too. How it’s pretty remarkable how quickly clean clothes become overrated and a balanced diet seems irrelevant when you can live off of good jokes and live music instead.
To the killer crew who made me realize that being epic and dirty might just be the best way to be.
And that means you:
And of course: