9:15 a.m. What’s that noise? But really, why is that noise? Why is it happening?
9:16 a.m. Oh, it’s “Nosetalgia.” You set a themed alarm for today. That’s cute. But yeah, that’s not happening. Turning that shit off.
9:18 a.m. Wait, wasn’t there…didn’t I…something about waffles and vodka…
9:19 a.m. Right! You were supposed to go to a breakfast pregame. You know, one of those deals with the shitty bacon and lots of deceptively alcoholic beverages that just taste like orange juice but leave you wandering down Ellis trying to find a Bonanza that doesn’t exist.
9:20 a.m. But why do I feel like this? Whyyyyyyy?
9:21 a.m. Because you went out last night, you dumbass. Your actions have consequences, and this is one of them. You should’ve been hydrating, but instead you…. What did you do? Something to do with Strawberry Colada Svedka...
9:22 a.m. OK, I can overcome this, I just need to sleep for 10 more…
11:58 a.m. Oh shit. Looks like you missed the breakfast pregame. You had your day planned out perfectly, down to the hour. Where you were going to be, with whom you were going to drink. You were gonna meet Baauer, eat Chipotle with Flying Lotus, braid Pusha T’s hair into cornrows. You were gonna be somebody. But instead you woke up like this: late for everything and more hungover than a bro tank on a clothesline.
11:59 a.m. It’s okay, though. It’s still morning, we can still salvage this. You gotta get going, though, because we’re more than 200 words in and you haven’t gotten out of bed.
12 p.m. All right, DU’s party starts in exactly one hour, so that means one thing: shots.
1 p.m. OK, we made it. We’re here, in the parking lot, ready to rage. Where’s the rage? Oh, that’s right, parties never start at the Facebook event time. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
1:01 p.m. All right, we can buy some time. Maybe hit up Bartlett. Spike some Cheerios with that sweet, sweet Strawberry Colada Sveddy.
1:58 p.m. OK, that’s enough stalling. Let’s do this.
2:30 p.m. RAAAAAAAAAAAGE
3:30 p.m. RAAAAAAAAAAAGE
4 p.m. RAAAAAAAAAAAGE IIIIIIIIISSSSSS AAAAAAA VEEEEEEEEEEERRRB.
7 p.m. Is that “Nosetalgia” again? What time…. Oh no. Oh no. You already napped through half the show. Must. Get. To. Hutch. Courtyard.
7:15 p.m. OK, good, you caught the end of Baauer’s set. Just in time for “Harlem Shake.”
7:30 p.m. Why is he…why is he walking off the stage? He didn’t…there hasn’t been…EXCUSE ME, MR. BAAUER, MY HARLEM HAS NOT YET BEEN SHOOKED! SHAKED! SHAKEN! WHATEVER. YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, YOUNG MAN, AND YOU PLAY “HARLEM SHAKE”!
7:33 p.m. He didn’t listen. There go $20–$85 down the drain.
7:38 p.m. Somehow there’s nobody onstage but the crowd is still squishing people forward and backward, oozing in a senseless mass toward the stage. There’s this skinny girl with a pretty face on the other side of the barrier at the front who appears to be a MAB volunteer/board member, and she’s fucking terrifying. She keeps yelling, “Back the fuck up! Back the fuck up right now!” Her apparent conviction that she could actually make everyone “back the fuck up” if she wanted to is juxtaposed with the harsh reality that she is very small and thin, and there are 1,000-odd people who want to be closer to the stage. In no way is her telling anybody anything going to keep people from pushing each other forward. You laugh at this futility, and she sees you laughing, and she takes it as a personal affront to her authority. Now she’s looking right at you. She’s yelling at you. She’s not telling the crowd to back the fuck up, she’s telling you to back the fuck up. It doesn’t matter what anybody else does, because no one else laughed in her face. For all she cares, everybody could storm the stage and carry Pusha T off into the Harper Reading Room for a group siesta in the comfy chairs, she just needs you to back the fuck up. You back the fuck up.
7:40 p.m. What, you guys didn’t realize that this is actually just an embellished personal essay?
7:53 p.m. ’CAUSE I’M KING PUSH! THIS KING PUSH! I RAP N*GGA ’BOUT TRAP N*GGAS I DON’T SING HOOKS! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
8:05 p.m. Dude, I think Pusha T might be a better studio rapper.
8:50 p.m. FlyLo is totally trolling us. He basically just told us to suck it because we’re still in school. I like this guy.
9:58 p.m. This set is so long that you’ve sobered up. This is not good. Gotta get out of here.
10 p.m. OK, gonna go to your friend’s apartment to refuel. NECESITO MÁS ROLLING ROCK!
11:38 p.m. Psi U yeeeeeeeeeeeeees!
12:45 a.m. Whoa, that dude just punched that other dude. Right next to you. Shit. They’re still going at it. This is nuts. This is way more entertaining than Pusha T. Wait, there’s that one Asian FIJI dude who always seems to be breaking up fights. What a peacemaker. Now there’s a lot of trash talk and explaining going on. Who hit whom first, who’s a bigger pussy than whom, et cetera. Wow. That was the highlight of the day.
1:15 a.m. DANCE FLOOR! YEEEEEESSSS!
1:30 a.m. RAAAAAAAAAGE!
1:45 a.m. DANCE FLOOR! NOOOOOOOOOO!
2:04 a.m. Go back home by yourself, put “Harlem Shake” on full blast, and dance the loneliness away. Then cash out and hope you don’t wake up until Monday.
A belated happy Summer Breeze, y’all.
Liam Leddy is the blogger behind Vignettes and Hyperlinks. He is a second-year in the College majoring in economics.