Music festivals have become a staple of pop culture. From Lollapalooza to Governor's Ball to Reading and Leeds, there's a music festival for every genre and every fan. The only problem that comes with music festivals is pricing. Some, like Summerfest in Wisconsin, have free admittance during certain days or tickets less than $100 while others, like Coachella in California, can cost hundreds or thousands of dollars.

Go. Do it. Save some extra money throughout the year and go to the festival, whichever you please. I've only been to Lollapalooza twice but both years were the greatest experiences of my life and I wouldn't trade it for all the money in the world. If you need a little more motivation, picture this

Wrist band? Check. Backpack? Check. Money? Check. Cell phone? Check. I repeated those words over and over in my head, checking and re-checking to make sure I had everything I needed and even a few things I knew I didn’t. Just like the past two days, we had our wrist bands, we had our sunscreen, and we were ready for our final day of Lollapalooza.

For the third time that week, my best friend Stephanie and I join one of half a dozen lines at the front gate, typically used as a bridge by the citizens of Chicago. It’s barely 11:30 – the park has only been open for half an hour – but it’s already packed and we’re not even inside. The honking of cars on Michigan Avenue behind us is even louder than usual with so many streets cordoned off for the festival. We stand underneath the dimming sun and clouding sky for about 20 minutes, embracing the little bit of warmth that counters the breeze coming from the lake mere yards away from us. After a brief bag check and a TSA-style pat-down, we’re finally inside the venue.

We walk straight past the Farmer’s Market and vendors lining the streets to fill up our water bottles and grab a slice of three-layer Chicago pizza before we head straight to one of the smallest stages at the park. This time we don’t even circle Buckingham Fountain in the middle; we turn left down the road scattered with local food vendors and weave our way through trees and people until we make it to the little stage.

The crowd already stretches from each side of the small open area, tall trees fencing the stage in. This is the only band I actually want to see that day, so Stephanie starts pushing her way through the crowd from the far right. I could tell most of the people in the crowd were going to wait four hours in the chilly wind and gloomy weather just like us to see The 1975.

One, two, three, four bands get up onstage as the sun continues to fade behind a cover of clouds, making the breeze from the lake a little colder as everyone crowds together. Somehow, Stephanie and I manage to make it from the right side of the trees to the right side of the barricade, dozens of fans pushing my body against the hard metal railing in front of me. And let me just say, being five feet tall and squished against a four foot tall metal bar is not my cup of tea.

Just as the lights go up, a small raindrop lands on my face and I look up to really notice how dark the sky had turned. A looming grey mass hovers over the entire city of Chicago, but at this point, I don’t care. All I care about is the band ready to grace the stage. Two girls I don’t know start talking to Stephanie and me about the band and the wait seems to take less and less time. Sure enough, the lights drop again and Adam, Ross, and George run onstage to get to their instruments… leaving Matty to slowly walk on after them with a bottle of wine in one hand.

The set starts and finishes and I get to hold Matt Healy’s hand for a brief second as he drunkenly hops offstage and walks along the barricade before Stephanie taps my shoulder and says, “Ready to go to the signing?” I nod and grab both of our bags, handing hers over and grabbing the handle so we don’t lose each other in the massive throng of people leaving the stage. The girls we talked to before the set tag along, grabbing onto our bags and following us through the park.

The only thing that annoys me about Lollapalooza is the overwhelming amount of slow walkers -- something Stephanie also can't stand. She pushes through people to get to the signing tent, muttering “Sorry, excuse me,” while actually meaning “Move or I’m running you over.”

After what feels like hours but was only about 10 minutes, we make it to the signing tent next to the Bud Light stage. A crowd about the same size as the one we just left spreads out on the lawn in front of the much larger and more open stage than the one we crowded around. We stand in line for a while, avoiding the small sprinkles of rain falling from the sky and watching as fans move from one stage to the next, listening to bands they’ve never heard of and dancing along to the new music. Despite the rain, the Trojan plane flies above us for the thousandth time that day and finally – finally – we’re given the monotonous speech about “no pictures, they can only sign one CD cover, blah blah blah,” and 10 minutes later, The 1975 take their seats and the line starts moving.

At first everything is fine. We have our covers out and ready to be signed and I sneak a horrible selfie with Matt Healy as the line ever-so-slowly moves forward. That’s when everything takes a dreadful turn. What started as small, intermittent drops of water quickly turns into the hardest downpour I’ve ever experienced. I’m not talking a steady, heavy rain like a typical Midwest spring or summer. No, this feels like someone dumped an Olympic-sized swimming pool on our heads in the span of 15 minutes. One of our friends from the stage pulls out a blanket to hold over the group, but it’s quickly drenched and we’re left with nothing to keep ourselves dry, let alone our beloved CD covers. I rummage through my bag and find a way to improvise. On day one, Stephanie and I grabbed a couple garbage bags from one of the booths at the park. If you return an entire bag of trash, you get $5. Well, we weren’t going to get that $5. I open the bag and pull it over my head as a makeshift poncho, turning everything around me an odd green color. Stephanie does the same and we continue our slow trek to the front of the line. Thankfully, the band is under the cover of a tent so we can shrug the bags off while we make our way down the table. All of us huddle under the cover of the next tent over as we hurry to put the covers back in their case, ignoring the protests of security telling us to get out of the signing area.

I don’t want my merch to get wet and crinkled, okay, sir? (It got a little crinkled anyway.)

We shrug the bags back over our heads and punch out arm and head holes, making a slightly ineffective poncho, since our heads are exposed. Nevertheless, we sit on the muddy ground (with the makeshift poncho protecting us from the mud) and watch Childish Gambino’s set in the rain. The sky is still a cloudy grey, the ground is completely torn up, muddy, and ruined, and my hair is drenched from root to tip, but I held Matt Healy’s hand so none of that matters.

Plus, it makes for a great story.