DEALING WITH YOUR ‘CHELLA DEPRESSION
Aarin Abel
We’ve all been there. Wait, actually, most of us haven’t been there. In fact, I’m pretty sure 99.99 percent of the world hasn’t been there. By ‘there’, I mean the ‘there’ of all ‘theres’… Coachella.
Ah yes, Coachella; the famed music festival that takes all social media platforms by storm not once, but twice every year. We’re talking Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, Venmo, Youtube, LinkedIn, Google+, Squarespace, Myspace, Outer Space, and Spaceballs on Blu-Ray.
It all starts when you log onto your Facebook account on Coachella Eve (AKA anytime on the Thursday before) to see people prepping for their big journey. Many Coachella-ites have dubbed this sacred pilgrimage as “Carpoolchella”: when festival goers decorate their cars in paint with hippie symbols such as marijuana leaves or Bernie Sanders bumper stickers. They can be seen sticking their heads of the windows, flower crowns securely in tact while screaming “COACHELLAAAA” at any car that passes them on their way to the “desert.” Oh, “desert” is in quotations because these “friends” of ours are camping in the resort town of Palm Springs, not the damn Sahara (but don’t worry, there is a stage tent at the festival named after that!). “Friends” is in quotations because even though they’re our friends, we hate them during this period of time because they’re at Coachella and we, obviously, are not.
The Chella Depression continues as Coachella Eve gives birth to full blown Coachella, starting as early as 8 AM Friday. Snapchats and Grams are filled with the young, wild and free, wrapped in flowers, feathers, cultural-appropriated bindis, and the like. Commonly heard phrases include:
“OMG, it’s like 8am and I’m already drunk. COACHELLLA!!!!!!!”
“I had a watermelon for breakfast, ready to CHELLLA!
OR, if you have those real fancy friends, they’re already pre-gaming the pre-game by hitting up those exclusive Coachella celebrity parties. You might hear such things as:
“Kylie Jenner just gave me this Lip Kit goodie bag and I’m hammered off peach strawberry schnapps. Coachellaaaa!”
You hate them. You hate every single one of them. You crawl under your desk and sob for a few minutes because you’re not there. You’re about to be late to your job because you’re an adult. You cry a little more because you have to have a job. You regroup. You vow to turn off your phone to not be tempted. You get up and try to start the day.
You’ve made it until 3pm. Feeling good. You turn your phone back on; it’s your mid-day poop and you decided it’s time to treat yourself. You open up Snapchat, BIG mistake. Festival gates open at eleven but no true Chella-ite would be caught dead inside the festival before 2. Even 2:30 is pushing it. Late afternoon is where all the real action starts. Your Snapchat stories are flooded with your beautiful frenemies capturing their “we made it” moments! It’s the first sight for them (and for you) of the Polo Fields itself. The sprawling green, covered with giant hipster art installations, overpriced festival food, and that one guy who’s already puking in a corner.
Stay strong. You got this. You can do it. You go on Venmo because it’s the only app that won’t make you cry. Scratch that. Your entire Venmo feed is filled with Coachella payments (insert party hats, two girls dancing and watermelon emoji here). Enough is enough! You throw your phone across the bathroom in agony. Wait, no, now you want it back. Ugh. You have to speed up your pooping process in order to retrieve your only connection to the festival.
11:30pm. You had some bumps in the road, but you’ve made it through the day. You’re in bed because you decided to call it an early night tonight (okay, don’t kid yourself, you’re only home this early on a Friday because all your friends are mysteriously “out of town”). Fuck it. You scroll through it all; Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram. Kanye showed up during Jack Ü’s set?! Wait, A$AP Rocky was there too?! And that’s just Day One?!?! What’s the point in living anymore? Your life is over. Dead, dying, gone.
As you cry yourself to sleep, you lie to yourself that maybe tomorrow will be better. Deep down inside, you know that it won’t.
But hey, at least you’re going to Stagecoach.