Step aside, Rich Kids of Instagram. Go sip some Dom Pérignon on Dad’s yacht off the Italian Coast with your rich, bratty friends. You think money buys you happiness, but I challenge you to have more fun than I do rolling 10 deep in a ’96 MasterCraft, tearing through the no-wake zone with a cooler of Bud Heavy at my side. You can’t. Fuck your private chef, too. The bait shop next to the public boat ramp has a taco stand out front that’ll blow the fedora off your head.
Here are the Upper-Middle Class Kids of Instagram, summering in the burbs and balling hard on Dad’s upper-middle class budget:
Bringing the water park to the suburbs.
If you squint hard enough, you’re on a remote tropical island.
Casual beach roadie to Gulf Shores.
Fuck your fancy internship. I’m trying to stack paper this summer.
Redefining the staycation.
That view, though.
You can take the thug out the burbs, but you can’t take the burbs out the thug.
They see me rollinnnnn, they hatinnnnnn.
Not quite ready to take your talents to the links.
Guess who went HAM at the Polo Outlet again.
The squaaaaaad and my selfie stick.
Living the dream.
The great outdoors.
Juuuuuust off the Vegas Strip.