An open letter to the douche-y festival goer

I didn’t want this to be a hate letter….

I’m directing this to you, guy vomiting up your vodka in the gutter at 11am. To you, girl who is sitting in the middle of the crowd chatting over the top of Shamir. To you, guy who poured your drink down my back while pushing too hard to get to the front. And to you, girl who thinks smoking in the mosh pit is a good idea (it’s not, you burnt me bitch).

Let me start by saying, I didn’t want this to be a hate letter. Truly, I wanted us to all get along, to cohesively festival together, both enjoying ourselves and not getting in each other’s way.

But you made that difficult didn’t you? You had to have a little bit more to drink than necessary and rub your sweaty body all up over me. You had to link arms with your buddies and jump up and down like a bunch of Irish dancers. You HAD to be annoyingly tall, wear an offensive Native American headdress and then stand front and centre at acts you clearly weren’t interested in seeing.

I’m glad you’re having fun, really, I am. And admittedly, I wish I was having as much fun as you. But I’m not. I’m trying to shake my thing (inside my personal space zone) but I can’t get into the music because you won’t stop stepping back into me, so you are the perfect selfie length away from your phone.

I get it, you want to have fun. But that doesn’t mean you have to get so close to me that your sweaty hair enters my mouth. Why can’t we all just stand in the mosh pit without touching? Why do you have to push forward? Why do you have to subtly touch my butt? Or stand on my feet?

I wish I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat it and be happy. But you won’t eat it will you, douche-y festival goer. You’d rather down your UDLs and Coronas, and Snapchat videos of yourself being a “sikkkkk c*&#.”

I hate you, I really do.

So let’s get it together, because you ain’t gonna remember the music, you’re going to feel like shit tomorrow, be burnt to a crisp and you sure as hell aren’t going to pick up. Or maybe you will. But it will only be with another douche-y festival goer, and they were probably the one who was vomiting in the gutter before you started sucking face on top of me.

Brill image by I’m Already Trying My Hardest, aka Luke from accounts.