Alright you tribe of freaks, let’s take a walk on the wild side, because the madhouse carnival known as festival season is upon us once again. That’s right, the sticky summer reunion of the chemically-enriched masses, where inhibitions are shucked like last year’s kandi bracelets and MDMA flows like manna from the neon heavens.

It's a peak behind the tie-dyed curtain courtesy of the “Drug Safety at Music Festivals” study, whose authors must have been rolling face when they picked that Orwellian title. Because if there’s one constant in this pulsating sea of hedonism, it’s that safety sometimes gets set outside the VIP tent faster than you can say “merry Molly madness.”

The stats are appalling in that distinctly American way that feels almost inevitable: 87% percent of you maniacs are sizing up your party favors as we speak, a 10% surge in prospective mind altered attendance from the previous year’s bacchanalia. Cannabis of course reigns supreme, which checks out given that weed’s gone more corporate than a Phish tour T-shirt these days.

But the more potent party favors aren’t far behind, with nearly half planning to snort Mr. Boulder’s classroom rewards, over a quarter questing for smoke nirvana, and a shocking one in eight ready to chase the damn dragon on a weekend rave bender. Music maniacs are clearly keeping the trip to high times nice and spicy!

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, Rock Fest and Burning Man top the list of Most Debauched happenings, with the former an ear-bleeding Altamont for the Brew Crew set, the latter a feral display of pyro-poncery that redefines the term “contact high.” But sweet dumpster-fire Coachella rounding out the top three proves these whacked-out Ibiza delusions cut across all genres like a samurai sword through an inflatable zebra.

The facts keep getting granular from there: most of you corner kids will be copping your stashes onsite instead of pre-gaming at home, with millennials leading the charge because of course. Over 80% front like responsible citizens by testing their drugs, which is a modern essential step with the threat of filthy fentanyl, though there’s still one in five who’d rather rock-paper-scissors for the sugary placebos. And per the standard festival algorithm, you animals are pretty much split between hotboxing in the porta-potties, wilding out amongst the crowd, or huddling outside the gates, nostrils pinched in search of the next wandering Sasquatch supplier.

The grand mal could be the risqué dance with the elements with more than half facing heat strokes, psycho-carnivals and dehydration from chasing their interstellar ganja-dragons. Two-thirds of younger hedonists raised the insanity meter by banging randos after peaking like it was a psychedelic Eyes Wide Shut party. One in four millennials even took the party fouls interstate by recklessly risking every commuter within a 20 mile radius.

And while the study’s authors pimp nonsense like “be responsible,” “start slow,” you know the drill. The real thrust is that the whole scene’s running straight into a future spiraling into ridiculousness. Each year, the traveling conga line parties harder, dives deeper down the rabbit hole toward the inevitable trip into that infinite abyss. Don’t bogart that medical tent, the trees next door already called dibs!