The Breaking Point

My breaking point happened at the end of that Summer of Festivals—Groovin’ The Moo, 2015. A group of us had booked an accommodation Douth (that’s Down South for all you non-Perthians) in Busso (Busselton) for a few days. It was quite a lovely getaway. We went exploring around Gracetown and Margaret River. But the day of GTM came and—how should I put this—I got super fucked up. Like, F-U-C-K-E-D U-P. We had pres in our accommodation then hopped in the car and headed to the festival. This is where things slowly started to turn.

I was sitting in the backseat of the van, holding a bottle of rum and coke like a baby with its milk bottle. Then I received a Snapchat from Mia. I started crying because she had recently resigned from Zara and I didn’t want her to leave. I called her on the phone and cried to her. When we arrived at the festival, I made a quick recovery and was ready to go. Throughout the day I kept dropping my phone on the ground until it got to the point where I had to give it to my friend, Rachael to hold because I didn’t want to lose it. But then we were watching San Cisco and I wanted to Snapchat it so I asked for my phone back and this is where it all—basically it all fell to shits.

To be continued . . .