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Gov Ball 2018:

What Insta doesn’t show you

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Gov Ball 2018:

WHS students join the Gov Ball festivities.

WHS students join the Gov Ball festivities.

Photo by Emma Herber

WHS students join the Gov Ball festivities.

Photo by Emma Herber

Photo by Emma Herber

WHS students join the Gov Ball festivities.

Fiona Gillen and Lauren Sullivan

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If you have a social media account, chances are you saw pictures from the annual Governors Ball, a music festival that occurred this past weekend on Randall’s Island in New York. However, there’s more to the festival than just the pictures you see.

Here is the reality behind the perfect Instagram posts from Gov Ball this weekend, broken down by time for your convenience:

9:49 a.m. – Twenty-two girls board the train from Westfield to New York City, clad with glitter, fanny packs and buckets of energy. To any of the confused adults on the train who ask, we answer—today is Gov Ball. It is the first part of our three-leg journey on our way to Randall’s Island for 10-½ hours of mosh pits, fried food and insane port-a-potty lines.

11:47 a.m. – As we walk through the gates into the festival, we sincerely hope that our wind-blown hair from the breezy ferry ride to the island is in style. We can already feel the bass pumping in our chests as we look out across the vast field where people are gathering. After a quick stop at the “five-star” port-a-potties, our priority is simple: Big Mozz Sticks.

2:32 p.m. – With stomachs full of fried mozzarella, we move our arms to the beat of Quinn XCII’s “Straightjacket” while trying to lift our noses above the layer of smoke emitting from the crowd. Girls in neon tube tops struggle to catch their balance atop their friends’ shoulders, attempting to see Quinn XCII better (and get the perfect festival picture).

5:21 p.m. – Thousands of young, kinda dumb, and definitely broke teenagers scream the words to Khalid’s hit “Young Dumb & Broke.” Highlights include moshing, making friends in the mosh, and seeing a grandma hit a Juul.

10:44 p.m. – As Eminem’s setlist winds down, the weather turns and colorful rain ponchos make their debut. We help festival-goers shove their way out of the crowd by screaming the one thing that will always part the masses: “SHE’S GONNA THROW UP!” With aching feet, running mascara and raspy voices, we dance our way back onto the ferry singing, “This opportunity comes once in a lifetime!”

2:03 a.m. – After running a mile through the rain to catch our train home (thank you to the New Yorkers cheering us on), we tiptoe back into our dark houses. We try to wash the glitter out of our hair, but you’ll probably see traces of it for a week. We curl up in bed, legs aching and dreading the tests we have to take in T-minus six hours. But even so, the countdown begins for next year—only 365 days to go.

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