Your Spring Break Fantasy

By Fiona Shea

The phenomenon of an all-inclusive spring break trip has been swirling around your brain since you were just a baby freshman. An incredibly cool and wise senior once bestowed spring break wisdom onto you and her other young followers. She told you all about the booze cruise and the unlimited alcohol and the poolside bars and the drinks served in coconut shells.

And now, three years later, it’s finally your turn to experience this raw process of girls becoming women and boys becoming men. Your expectations are needless to say incredibly high for this trip, as spring break is easily one of the most hyped-up experiences in American collegiate culture.

In your fantasies, the all-inclusive resort is a straight-up palace. You didn’t bother looking online at the hotel’s photo gallery. Photo galleries are for squids. It’s obviously gonna be dope, because you’re in a grand of debt to your parents. Debt = dope.

The flight there is super smooth because you’re surrounded by your guys and girls. Flights with friends = fun flights.

An Uber Black picks you up from the airport. It’s an Escalade with tinted windows. Uber Blacks = billionaire baller. The driver stood at the gate with a sign that had your name on it. You’re oozing Big Spring Break Energy. Off to a perfect start.

In the Uber Black Escalade you sit shotgun and dap up the Uber driver. He offers you a mint. Mints = fresh = babes everywhere. Easy peasy. You snag the aux cord and immediately queue up some spring break bangers. “Hate Bein’ Sober” transitions to “BBO (Bad Bitches Only)” and you finish off the set with “Thotiana.” Everyone loves your selections.

You and your crew roll out of the Uber Black up to the palace. A guy in a tuxedo opens the door for you and hands you a drink in a coconut. It’s so fucking good. They call the drink “The Elixir of Life.” You know damn well you’re about to be deleting a couple hundred of those bad boys.

The rooms are *legit insane* with a hot tub and an infinity pool and a water slide into the ocean. You immediately tornado a bottle of tequila with your spring break roomie, and slide down your private water slide to the beach where everyone awaits your arrival.

No sunscreen, because fuck sunscreen. Sunscreen’s for pale squids and that’s the most important thing to remember on spring break. Your skin starts immediately glowing upon entering the sun, Ariana Grande “7 Rings” style. You know everyone sees it. You’re also ten pounds lighter than you were that morning in the Bronx. (It has something to do with the barometric pressure in the Dominican Republic?) It’s like going to outer space essentially.

And then, after executing perfectly casual-cool dance moves to “Thotiana,” it’s about that time. Time for the thirst trap. You mount a jet ski being driven by a sexy surf instructor with long hair and a puka shell necklace. His name is Alejandro. Alejandro is extremely tan, as are you. He will shortly become your spring break lover. The photoshoot on the jet ski is super chill, but everyone is high-key watching you. It’s like they’ve never seen two hot, young people in love on a jet ski together. You receive an overwhelming amount of positive attention.


The thirst trap hits the ‘gram and starts working wonders. Instagram shuts down again for a second there but then fires back up because HQ needs to see that MF thirst trap. Ghost followers are crawling out of the cobwebs to like this very picture. Everyone you’ve ever known likes the picture. The picture starts trending online. You become an Instagram model. Boom, you’re verified. Oh, what’s up blue check? What’s up Emily Ratajowski? Obama is the millionth like.

You somehow manage to maintain a perfect drunk off of a tornado-ed bottle of tequila that was consumed in just under two minutes. The jet ski starts pulling away from shore to a deserted island where Alejandro has a villa. He gifts you a handmade flower crown. It’s official: You’re the Queen of spring break.


You fall asleep while Alejandro gently lathers you with tanning oil. Why is Ale being so aggressive right now? You think to yourself. Why...why is Ale-babe laughing at me? You’re shaken awake by your most loyal spring break roomie looking super concerned.

“Dude … we thought you were dead.”

“Oh shit…” You look around to find an empty beach. Sand is glued to your face and your eyeballs sting. It feels like you’ve spent extended time in a desert.

An orange sun is slowly setting on the day-drinking festivities. Which means that the evening drinking festivities immediately commence. You touch your lava hot skin. It hurts to move.

“Just gimme a minute. I’ll meet you back in the room,” you tell your roomie.

In a dehydrated daze, you start trying to put the pieces together. Where’s Alejandro? And my flower crown? And the … and the thirst trap? You frantically grab your phone. No notifications. No follower requests. No virtual validation. You realize that you blacked out off that tornado-ed bottle of tequila and vaguely remember jumping off the booze cruise while the boat was in motion.

Right when you almost get a little bummed out - about the absence of Uber Blacks, personal water slides, and your dangerously severe sunburn - oh, and the fact that Alejandro is a made-up fucking person, a beautiful melody starts playing in the distance. I … I know this. This isn’t a dream! You follow the sound from the beach back to the pool. It’s … It’s “Thotiana.” The bartender waves you over like he’s known you your whole life and has a big, fat tequila shot waiting for you.

Damn. You take the shot back and nearly throw up on the bar. This really is a fantasy.

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Culture, Satire, CurrentFiona Shea