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An Average Day On Spring Break

Fort Walton Beach, Florida, USA

It’s around 4:32 in the afternoon, and you’ve just incurred a minor panic attack because you were watching Clemson versus NC State on the toilet, and you barely made a snow cone catch with your thighs before your phone got more soaked than American Idol season eight winner Kris Allen’s face in 2009. It’s Spring Break season which means your AirBnB/Hotel Room has strictly been bumping Pitbull because March is a time for College Basketball, Mr. 305, and a few hot girl’s birthdays. Your Bank Account has endured its own NATO crisis with the flights and hotel room, so lunch was a liquid one today. Spring Break has won a few battles, but it has not yet won the war.

After your ass has thrown up the little bit of food your stomach consumed over the last forty-eight hours, you walk down to check in on the fellas. Your friend group is currently at different variations of down bad, ranging from your one friend who saw his ex-girlfriend tongueing a local named Luciano last night, to your boy who looks like he could be Jen Saki’s brother having the complexion of Alex Jones choking on a piece of steak after getting sun poisoning. Wherever you are on Spring Break, two things stay in common: A.no amount of chlorine can scrub the male seed and sins the body of water next to you has endured, and B. you are within five miles of either Steve Aoki or a failed rapper. Being that you’re kind of drunk, your ninety percent convinced that your sunglasses have given you the gift of invisibility look at the…NSFW content around you until a girl your friends with taps you on the shoulder and says, “what the fuck are you looking at?” To which you reply, “just zoning out, there’s so much going on in the world right now.”

When you finally get back from the beach/pool, you’re drunk from the sun, and you’re even more intoxicated from the liquid Wheat; you hooked up publicly with two girls (one of which had a nose ring), and it’s time for a nap. 6PM after day drinking in your early twenties is basically sort of like a video game with two options: press A to dump a bag on a table and make plans to start a financial fund exclusively on the blockchain called BlockChain Hathaway- an idea that sounds very cool and original at the time or B. Take a nap on a cot fitted with yellow floral sheets.

When you wake up, you go into your bathroom that’s always too cold and smells like cigarettes and farts to discover there are no dry towels. Clean, dry towels on Spring Break are like cigarettes in prison: a luxury only for the well connected. As the scolding hot water five-stars your back, you begin to hear your temporary roommates “making moves” for tonight’s plans. If you’re in Fort Lauderdale, this most likely means going to the Spring Break Mecca (America’s Backyard), if you’re in Cabo, this means going to one of a litany of nightclubs where you will end up throwing up tequila in the bathroom, and so forth. No matter where you go, there will always be one guarantee, you will spend too much money on an Uber because your Dad spent the last week sending you articles about other kids your age being kidnapped wherever the fuck you are.

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