5:00 a.m.: I wait at the barricade among thousands of people. The heat burns my bald spots and my scalp starts to itch from my thrifted vintage 1982 niche hat.
5:05 am: I take the special pills the nice Turkish doctor gave me for my hair transplant recovery, which somehow makes my tummy rumble and my head hurt. I re-examine the tablets and realize I mixed them up with my Miralax. Shoot. That was supposed to be for post-ASM Fish Fridays.
5:30 a.m.: I leave a sign saying “went to the bathroom. BRB,” and rush to the porta potty. When I come back, a family of four is in my spot. I search for the sign I left, which I find on the desert ground, with extra writing calling me “Fat, Ugly, and Worthless.”
6:00 a.m.: I confront the family, whose eyes are focused on my crotch, appalled. Confused, my eyes slowly drift down to my unzipped pants, showing my secret Justin Bieber underwear. Before I can respond, the retired mall cop-turned-Coachella snitch apprehends me.
6:10 a.m.: As I’m sitting, handcuffed in the back of his golf cart, my phone starts vibrating continuously. The Coachella snitch stops the car.
6:11 a.m.: He throws me to the ground and pats me down, expecting a makeshift weapon or hidden electric toothbrush. I have to explain it’s just my GPA dropping on Canvas.
6:20 a.m.: I arrive at Coachella jail, behind Kim K. and Kylie Jenner’s lounge, but conveniently next to Justin Bieber’s set. My cellmate is a white hippie with dreadlocks, who welcomes me to the “shack” (whatever that means?).
1:00 p.m.: My hippie cellmate starts drawing streaks with laxative pills, which look oddly similar to the ones I took. Hmm.
1:20 p.m.: She puts on the Ballerina movie and of course, Timotheé Chalamet walks in at that same moment. His aura changes, and Kim’s lip filler migrates in embarrassment.
3:00 p.m.: The sun hits peak and shines through the barred window, and my cellmate is playing an illegally acquired banjo (where did he get that from?).
3:30 p.m.: Justin Bieber appears on stage. I hold onto the cell bars in hopes of getting closer to see him. He starts performing “Beauty and a Beat” and I sulk at the fact that Nicki couldn’t make it—she must’ve been partying at Mar-a-lago.
5:00 p.m.: When Justin Bieber’s set ends, I use the tomatoes in my pocket that I intended to use during KSI’s set as juggling balls to practice my hand-eye coordination for the PE ropes course.
5:10 p.m.: As the “Gard” is distracted with my hippie cellmate (she took the laxative pills), I grab my phone back.
5:11 p.m.: I get a notification on Outlook: “Head of School Day tomorrow!” I throw my phone onto the concrete.
7:59 p.m.: My phone blows up, and I am hopeful that the huzz has texted me back, but it’s just my dorm group chat, and it’s a random freshman’s birthday. I also notice a text from my house counselors asking about my location.
8:01 p.m.: I panic because I don’t have a Reach request, and I tell them that my plane got delayed. I forgot that this strat is patched, and the Dean sends me a boomerang on Insta with a GAP sweatshirt and confetti. He tells me I have a “virtual GAP.”
8:10 p.m.: I connect to the jail Wi-Fi and call my Dean via Insta and explain the situation. He says, “proof or it didn’t happen,” and I show him the dreadlock shavings of my white hippie cellmate.
8:20 p.m.: After crying, begging, shouting, and screaming, I am given a GAP, and I get notified that my bail was set. I beg my Dean to bail me out, but he says “nah, bro, thug it out.” I spend the night learning how to play ping pong from Timmy Tim Tim.
