I didn’t spend my teen or college years in America so I’ve never experienced SPRING BREAK! but in my imagination Coachella 2014 is SPRING BREAK! times a million. The festival grounds are strewn with half-naked bodies, everyone’s excavating each other’s tonsils, they’re daggering to no music, they’re passed out cold and sunburnt while the world rages around them, they’re wearing t-shirts that say “Wild Child” and “America Fuck Yeah.” At any given moment there are five girls within a 15 foot radius of you on the phone looking teary and wasted—“But where ARE you?” “But why did you SAY that?” “I don’t understand why you’re BEING LIKE THIS.” Underbutt is visible at all times and topless bros with fannypacks hide their glassy eyes with sunglasses at night. Coachella has all the highs and lows of moneyed youth packed into a polo field that’s 85,000 people deep and everyone is determined to have the best weekend of their lives. This isn’t about #coachillin; this is about getting fucked up.