Words by Elizabeth Cuomo

Have you ever felt like ruining the simplicity of good time with excess and greed? If the answer is yasss and you live in New York, it’s your lucky day. Now, for a mere $650, you and your loved ones can enjoy a night at Collective Governor’s Island, a glamping retreat.

The Summit glamping package offered by Collective Governor’s Island includes: a king size bed with 1000 thread count sheets and a “designer curated blanket” (what? I don’t know either), multiple electrical outlets for all of your precious gadgets, a spacious private bathroom complete with a rain shower, three complimentary meals a day, and yes, a fucking spa.

If you’ve never heard of glamping, consider yourself a decent human. Glamping refers to ‘glamorous-camping,’ which makes about just as much sense as extreme-librarying, or lighting your paycheck on fire for warmth. Glamping is for those who wish to say that they camp, but like the comfort of a hotel suite and nothing about actual camping. The New York Times’ mind numbing account of the opening statement on Governor’s Island features some some deeply disillusioning quotes. Little by little, each quote chipped away at what remains of the hope I have for a better future.

“It felt good to disconnect”, says Damon, a Park Slope resident (naturally) and the first glamper interviewed. This notion of “disconnecting” is one that is brought up frequently in the article. As if somehow, the only way to turn off your phone for a night is to spend $650 to sleep in a fake tent-hotel. If you’re disconnecting, why the hell do you need all of those outlets? You know what camping lacks? Wifi. There are no outlets in the forest, you spineless morons.

It’s as though the people in this article have never, ever seen nature before. “Thousands of lights in Lower Manhattan twinkled like constellations.” No, no they did not. That is called light pollution and you are insane.

Camping is boring, which is precisely what is what makes it perfect and beautiful and sacred. Going into the woods, drinking beer, burning meat over an open flame, and sleeping in a tent. On the ground. There you go, glampers. Get a grip. Stop ruining everything I enjoy and making me angry. Stick to brunch.