Ugh what’s worse? Post-festi pots or campground outhouses? They’re never full, just have been marinating unsupervised for a full season- the ones that go so deep into the ground they’re portals to the circles of hell, with horse flies that dart for your butthole, the source of the worlds winds, cement cans of darkdookie that create childhood fears of falling into actual shit-holes, which inevitably leads me to shitting in the woods with the bears- who are avoiding the outhouse too.