I know I should be upset about this. My friends look at me with such pity when I humbly mention, in the middle of their periodic Coachella countdown cheer, that I still haven’t managed to find a ticket. But I really don’t think I care anymore.

There’s certainly nothing wrong with Coachella this year; the festival sold out in record time — less than a week after tickets went on sale. Clearly the people over at GoldenVoice, the organizers of the concert, are doing something right.

So I’m faced to admit it: Coachella, it’s not you, it’s me.

Last year, when the festival sold out I almost cried. (OK, I cried). I had to resort to prowling Craigslist for a few days to get a ticket, and thankfully, I found a fellow student who was honorable enough to charge me regular price (I know others who weren’t so lucky and showed up to Coachella with over-priced fake tickets). I eventually made the expedition to Indio and had an awesome time camping and dancing in the desert. So I guess I could have the whole “been there done that” syndrome. But who knows?

It might just be spring fever, but I feel like I’ve lost my desire to discover new music. There was once a time when I’d care that I’m missing out on the Strokes this weekend. Now I sit high atop my tower of a desk chair every day, staring out at the computer screen below me, unable to decide what to play on iTunes.

I worry that I’ve become an apathetic douche. After all, I have been writing a bit too much like Holden Caulfield lately. Coachella is for phoneys! I’m superior. Gah.

I’ve been consciously or subconsciously avoiding all artists on the festival lineup (though I’m dying to see Robyn and love to blast “The Girl and the Robot” in the newsroom. I’m still crossing my fingers that she’s somehow headlining the Sun God dance tent).

As a result, the artists I’ve been repeating on my iPod are decidedly anti-Coachella; Led Zeppelin and Miles Davis are clearly not playing the Mojave tent this year, and the new Britney album would make most festival-going hipsters roll their eyes (but it’s so good!).

I can’t help but think that my apathy is just a depressing extension of my true despair. Underneath my collected demeanor, I’m jealous of everyone who gets to enjoy three days of music underneath the desert sun. Because even if I’m finding myself exceptionally bored with the blog favorites of the world, there’s still an addictive thrill in finding a promising new artist.

When Coachella passes — and therefore my resulting indifference — I might be down to go to a show with you. For now I’m going to continue to judge my music collection with the finest possible toothed comb, and save a ton of money.