"We're being paid to cover the con."

It's a cool feeling to say that, and I want to say thank you again to all the people who's financial support enabled us to be here. It's 0323, Sunday. I'm told the whole thing will be packed up starting at noon. I've managed to score fifteen milligrams of adderall, and am going to do my best to experience the last nine hours of MAGFest 2017 for you.

The whole place is beautiful, honestly. From the permanent "HENTAI"-plated Aston Martin in the circle drive (we're pretty sure it must be Martin Shkreli's) to the abandoned dead end from which I write you now - the whole thing is packed with some fifteen thousand horny, hyped nerds. I didn't think I wanted to be the bitter anti-social asshole I've ended up around these sorts in the past, but I most definitely lapsed into that family of assery in the soapbox for a moment (as you'll see on video.) The thing is, it's very difficult to be the ass I've always been when surrounded by such great people having such a great time. Don't get me wrong - plenty of the perspectives I've witnessed have been tremendously cringey - but the sum of the thing is undoubtedly respectable. I can't really rip on people having a genuinely good time.

A lot of us are and have been under the influence of various substances. I was handed some de-packaged DayQuill capsules at the "potentially obnoxious DJ jam zone" or whatever the fuck. I'm still not entirely sure why.

That zone - by the way - hosted the most incredible event of musical performances I have ever attended. It was probably because all of the musicians were friends or friends of friends, and I happen to adore this network of ours (which we have constant difficulty quantifying.)