Coachella and Other Things You Cannot Afford
I am a (reasonably) young, "creative" person living in an urban environment. As such, essentially everyone I know purports to be poor. Like, super poor (their emphasis, not mine). Now, not to get all Reagan on your ass, but I fully believe that my friends' particular breed of poverty is a choice. They're not poor because they have to work two jobs to pay for their mother's chemotherapy. They're not poor because they were born disenfranchised. They're poor because they waste their money on stupid, superfluous shit that does nothing to better their quality of life, because they still complain incessantly about being depressed.
Unless you're attending as a paid member of the Monster™ Energy Extreme Promotional Team, if you're going to Coachella this weekend, you no doubt shelled out tons of cash for tickets. Know what would have been a more productive thing to buy? Health insurance. If you're wasting what little scratch you have on the tired, money-sucking trappings of young life that I'll outline below, check yourself before you wreck yourself. Any by "yourself," I mean your credit (which is what defines your worth as a human anyway).
My great-grandmother spent a couple weekends in the desert once—escaping the Turks, who had murdered her entire family. The modern day equivalent of her journey consists of shitheads with Skrillex haircuts shlepping out to the godless wasteland that is the Coachella valley and spending $400 for the privilege of getting dehydrated on $12 beers, being aggressively marketed to by tech companies, and listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. No wonder the members of this generation have no goddamned character.
According to my father, food exists solely to "make turds." Viewing food as turd fuel means:
A) The word "brioche" doesn't need to be in your vocabulary,
B) You don't have to waste $30 every Sunday eating overpriced turd fuel in the company of women in sundresses and your hungover, financially irresponsible peers.
Did you know? Liquor has a higher alcohol content than beer. It's true! A 1.25 liter bottle of Evan Williams (or shit, if your Keno numbers hit, Jim Beam) costs less per buzz in the long run than can after can of macrobrewed piss water. Sure, there's no iconic red, white, and blue imagery associated with drinking a nondescript glass of whiskey, but you'll get loaded cheaper and faster than your PBR and High Life swigging chums. Which means you can start drunkenly yammering about how "fucking rad" the band you're listening to is that much quicker!
California, the beautiful state I call home, is a degenerate's paradise. I know this because it allows people without a genuine need for medicinal marijuana the ability to purchase medicinal marijuana. No one I know with a weed card has cancer. Everyone I know with a weed card, however, is "broke." And high. Constantly. Reckon there's a connection between the two?
In the modern world, tattoos function as personality transplants. They shout to the public, "Look! Me and my body have something to say! Something profound and meaningful! About bluebirds, and my love for them!" Granted, tattoos do last a lifetime. That being the case, the $100 you dropped on that tat of a dog taking a dump may seem like a wise investment. You know what's a better investment, though? Looking employable.
There is no shame in dressing like a productive member of society. Let your unique, irreverent personality speak for itself. You needn't 70s-era Schlitz shirt that you picked up for $25 do the job for you. Trust me. We all know you've got personality coming out the wazoo. It doesn't need to come out of your clothing as well.
Remember when people used to own things because they genuinely liked them? No? Me neither. Hey, wanna come over and check out the new framed Alf poster I bought on Etsy for $30? I know...$30, right? It's like the dude was practically giving it away!
You are not the free-wheeling, passion-fueled protagonist of a shitty Godard film. As such, you needn't own that Françoise Hardy album on vinyl. You're young. You're free. You're full of shit. You're going to get laid regardless. Trust me. Just get a Spotify Premium account and shut the fuck up about how much "cleaner" the sound is on your turntable.
NOTE: If you are that chick in Pulp's "Common People," by which I mean to say you're a slumming urbanite with "a thirst for knowledge" who lets your parents pay your bills, feel free to disregard all the advice outlined here and open up a combination record/clothing/handmade jewelry store in the least gentrified neighborhood in your city. You'll only keep the lease three months, but those three months will be the best Summer of your entire life.
For more barely restrained contempt from Megan Koester:
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