Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. I’m sunburnt, my liver is shaking, and all of the money I saved to bet college basketball on is gone, but I’d do it all over again. Miami has been overrun with girls wearing next to nothing and guys rocking Bass Pro Shops hats. Fort Lauderdale looks like Vegas’ white trash cousin, and I’d go as far as saying that its main strip of bars has seen more snow the last two weeks than Park City, Utah.
Sure, maybe two years ago, over one-hundred and twenty kids getting arrested in Miami Beach last Friday is just a New York Post headline that gives your Mom anxiety, but this year felt different. It felt like a year’s worth of sexual tension and debauchery was released in a perfect storm of chaotic degeneracy. Bars didn’t feel normal again; they were outright incredible. America’s Backyard had more heads last Friday than ISIS ringleader seeking vengeance. Every single kid on Spring Break was making up for lost time. Horny strangers exchanged tongues, ghetto guys stole phones, and I didn’t even bat an eye buying a double Rum & Coke for twenty-two dollars.
The city of Miami can enforce a midnight curfew all they want, but they’re fucking morons if they don’t think an average twenty-one-year-old isn’t eating a forty-seven dollar Uber to roam the lawless streets of Fort Lauddy. If you couldn’t make it down south for Spring Break, there’s good news for you too. We are inching closer to what’s going to be the best summer ever. If this trip taught me one thing, it’s that summer 2016 has nothing on what summer 2021 is going to be. Columbian villages will build their first hospitals from the export that’ll be snorted in bathroom stalls everywhere come this July, babies will be made on accident, and all the jealous GDIs that have been narc tweeting pictures from outside parties will have to go back to watching Freaks and Geeks.