As I sit here with blue hair dye soaking in my bleached ends (and probably also parts of my body that I won’t know about until tomorrow), chugging warm beer along to my ‘p4k prep’ playlist, I am mentally pregaming for the weekend I’m about to have—artists I’ve been dying to see, exes I don’t, leqqks that will outdo yours and ways to stay grounded.

Here is my early forecast for the weekend:

Although weather apps say otherwise, it will rain.
I will cry to Tribe Called Quest, more specifically when I hear the late Phife’s voice, more specifically during his verse on “Award Tour,” more specifically “Phife Dawg’s my name but on stage, call me Dynamutt!”

If I make it in time for Dawn Richard, I won’t regret it. I would be crazy to miss an ex-Danity Kane tertiary member-turned-indie daisy.
I will stain an item of clothing, probably my borrowed friend’s embroidered Mickey Mouse fanny pack childhood.
Frankie Cosmos will stun the crowd with her incredible live renditions and I will become a longtime fan.
Dirty Projectors will be awkward live and all I will think about is his overshadowed ex and the true star of the group, Amber Coffman.
Madlib will be super late and super high.
~* I will see an ex and I will prove myself as the kewler successor in many categories but I’ll still be too nervous to really say anything kewl*~
I will break a piece of equipment and pout over some overpriced lukewarm Wao Bao
The fuzzed baseline in Mitski’s “Best American Girl” will knock our fuckin’ sawks awff because this is the kind of thing that is made to be performed and consumed live!
Angel Olsen will still make no sense to me.
Neither will LCD Soundsystem (Sry not sry!!)
We will all wonder why we came to this awful cowheard known as a 'festival' and then remember when Solange performs "Don't Touch My Hair" and "Losing You."
This weekend will give me a new perspective for the next sub-chapter of my life.
I will sprain both ankles by the end of Sunday.