Dear teenagers at Bumbershoot: I loathe you. I understand that this is probably karma for being a horrible little shit teenager myself, but it doesn't make you any more tolerable. "DO YOU WANT TO GO TO ANDREA'S AFTER?" you screamed to your friend, standing a foot away. Right in front of me. "I'M NOT SURE. MAYBE IF I CAN GET A RIDE?" When I suggested you ladies finish your conversation after the song was finished, you sneered so hard, I was afraid your face would tear. "Ummm, we're at a concert." Yes. Yes we are. And I would appreciate it if you shut the fuck up for a minute so I could hear the music. At least when you're awkwardly dancing, I don't have to listen to your insipid conversation about scoring some molly and then having to call your mom high. Go buy another pair of high-waisted shorts and practice your twerking—and stay the hell away from me.