“I bet they’re going to spit in your scampi,” Bertie sneered, forking a delicate sprig of arugula before popping it into his mouth. The words came as a reaction to his sister’s raised voice when demanding that her dog be allowed at the table at the dining locale. (This particular place promised world class seafood, Bertram was certain that meant they would be bent over with food poisoning in only a matter of hours.) He has rights too! Was a phrase that had left Ingrid’s pumped up lips, triggering a snicker in her brother who was contented to suck in his cheekbones and sip at the white wine that had been brought to their table after his very, very specific reservation instructions. As a result (it was very hard to deny a Raske), the dog now sat perched in his own seat, with a cloth napkin tied around his neck. Behind him, Bertie could hear far too many whispers about health code violations, but the dog munched happily at the tartare that Ingrid had ordered, pushing raw beef onto the white tablecloth as the waitstaff winced. “So,” he said finally, setting down his fork to look at his sister. It was always interesting to look at Ingrid, to see the reflection of twinness that had disappeared as a result of her addiction to cosmetic procedures, “Are you done pretending to be on tour, or are you going back to Europe again after the summer is over?”
“You’re people too, aren’t you? Yes, you are! You are!” She cooed, scratching her dog under his jowls with the dagger points of her red acrylics. Chachki dragged a pink tongue over the plate; most of the steak tartare, minus some bloody flecks, had already disappeared or ended up on the spotless white tablecloth. Ingrid laughed. Victory pleased her. Even such a meaningless triumph over some strung-out, underpaid waitress who was probably still shooting dirty looks at her back felt satisfying. With an upwards flick of her eyes, she now directed her attention to Bertie and her tone fell flat, drying out. “I don’t give a fuck. I’m not gonna eat this anyway, it looks vile.” The possibly-contaminated scampi was cooling into oily puddles on her plate, untouched. Ingrid regarded it with a delicate sneer, swiping a few stray blonde strands out of her face. “Five star fucking prison food. God. I miss Europe. Carbs were actually worth it in Europe.” In her “off-duty” Gucci sweatsuit and enormous Chloé sunglasses, there was an air of careful arrangement to the messy bun, the cheekbones highlighted to shine. Nothing ever unintentional. Some people in the restaurant had already craned to get a better look at the two of them, trying to decide if she was a celebrity in disguise— very often, she got them to believe that she was, just through sheer displays of childish insolence like the one she’d staged upon being told her dog couldn’t sit at the table. Because what other kind of person could act like this and think themselves capable of getting away with it? Bertie was picking apart his own entrée with little enthusiasm but she could see sly amusement in his eyes, and knew that he was enjoying the ripples caused by her behavior this quiet Sunday brunch scene. His question was undeniably sarcastic. This prompted a downwards turn of her mouth. “Excuse you, pretending? I just played a show in London. What have you been up to, Bertram, other than letting my dog get fat?”
☁☼☁( ****. kira shipway. female. 22). welcome back to your summer paradise, INGRID RASKE we were wondering when you’d finally show up! the town’s really missed how PROVOCATIVE you are, even if you can be a bit STRAIGHT-UP EVIL at times. we hear back home they call you the PRIMADONNA, makes sense considering you remind everyone of LIPS INSURED FOR FIFTY G’S, VERSACE BOOTS AND LEOPARD-PRINT FUR, LOOSE ADDERALL ROLLING AROUND THE BOTTOM OF A BIRKIN, and SUSPICIOUS SEPHORA RECALLS ☁☼☁
let’s preface this by saying.... Ingrid is A Terrible Human Being With Very Little Redeeming Qualities. read on to find out more!
She’s lived her whole blissful life in New York: grew up on the Upper East Side, went to some expensive private school, and generally enjoyed the same privileged lifestyle made famous by the characters of Gossip Girl. Daddy is a hedge fund manager, mommy is a “stay-at-home mom” (lol!) whose looks have been described as “a plastic surgeon’s Venus De Milo” and who bonded with her kids during Mommy & Me Botox injections starting around 15 years old. Their parents have this fun open marriage where basically neither of them could give less of a shit about the other, and more often than not, someone is off in Mykonos with a twenty-year-old stewardess or Greek personal trainer.
(There was also that time when Mother Raske was in talks to join the cast of RHONY, before Tinsley Mortimer was chosen- something Ingrid has never gotten over. If those boring, vacant-eyed Rinna girls get to have airtime, just think of the household names she and Bertie could’ve become!)
The twins turned eighteen and moved to Brooklyn to become more “independent” by renting out a beautiful, two-story loft in DUMBO and having their parents foot the bill each month. Despite captioning many of her posts with #girlboss and citing Alexa Chung as “like, such a inspiration", Ingrid has always had zero work ethic and zero interest in actually contributing to society in a meaningful way. Her trust fund guaranteed that she’d never really have to work a day in her life; as a result, she and Bertie have grown up to be bratty, blonde 21st century monsters, reckless and spoiled, accustomed to indulging every whim and swiping credit cards with no limits.
Ingrid didn’t fuck around with applying to universities. While Bertie became a notorious online presence and a staple of the NYC night-life circuit, she took her brand in another direction. She showed off her extravagant wardrobe in endless #OOTDs, cultivated a killer street-style, and made frequent appearances at various fashion events until she began to garner a massive Instagram following- then, capitalized on her new influencer status by starting her own line of make-up and skincare products.
And yes, some of the ingredients in her eyeshadow palette may have been questionable, and there was a tiny outbreak of skin rashes that had to be covered up with some hasty PR, but like any other social media influencer, Ingrid knew she was catering to insecure, gullible girls who just wanted to live like she does- which meant that they’d buy anything she put her name on. Still, once Sephora dropped her products and Youtube beauty gurus had a field day at her expense, Ingrid decided she’d never really been passionate about make-up anyway and took “entrepreneur” out of her Instagram bio.
But they do say any publicity is good publicity... baby’s first “scandal” gave rise to the beginnings of her notoriety; Ingrid realized that being famous and infamous are pretty much the same thing, and in the social media age, it’s just about being too Extra to be ignored. So she leaned hard into her party habits, with no concern for discretion or image maintenance or keeping her lifestyle clean for the cameras. She’d be photographed with Paris Jackson and Sofia Richie in the front rows of Fashion Week then post tasteful nudes from a rapper’s hotel suite that same night. She was also never shy about her cosmetic procedures. Her favorite brag has always been sharing a surgeon with the Hadids. The insurance policy she took out on those pillowy, clearly-not-God-given lips last year really got people talking.
By now, Ingrid’s basically forgotten about that time she gave a couple thousand girls skin rashes and found her new calling: music. And not just music, but the whole fucking spectacle of being a diva like Britney, like Madonna, like Erika Jayne. Talent is irrelevant; money can get you much farther than talent can these days. So the past two years have seen Ingrid on “tour” with her first album (a.k.a just hanging out in European cities she likes, because no, she doesn’t sing live), promoting songs which I wanna say sound a lot like a mix of Kim Petras and Brooke Candy’s music: some club-friendly pop ballads, but mostly autotuned white girl rap about how disgustingly rich she is or some kind of MadLibs where ‘pussy’ was used for every fill-in. (Let the record show that both those songs r absolute bangers and Brooke Candy is a true queen, also Erika Jayne featuring on that track? *chef’s kiss* Ingrid is working on securing a collab as we speak).
So Ingrid’s music is like, only kinda terrible but also very danceable, and Bertie is obligated to play it at all the parties he organizes and DJ’s. Jezebel.com accidentally validated her this summer by saying that her new single is an “Ironic But Also Unironic Feminist Anthem” in some throwaway article, which Ingrid took and ran with- now her whole persona is based on being a sex-positive, plastic princess who’s just living her truth and repping for all the good time girls out there!
In truth you could say that Ingrid is far from a feminist, given how despicably she’s treated other girls in the past (she once bullied not one but two classmates into changing schools), but that’s more indicative of how she treats people in general. Maybe with the exception of her brother, people are meaningless until they’ve got something to offer her- whether it be another step up the fame ladder, or just more fuel for her ego. Otherwise, it’s either indifference or cruelty from Ingrid. Even the people she calls “friends” know that friendships with Ingrid are fleeting and fake, and can turn nasty as soon as she feels slighted, or threatened, or just bored!
Random tidbits:
Ingrid does not subscribe to the no-make-up, I-just-woke-up-like-this, Glossier Girl aesthetic; to even the most hungover of brunches, she’ll show up with acrylic tips and mink lash extensions, full beat and a Gucci tracksuit.
She’s a high-functioning addict, but would never admit to it. A steady diet of coke and amphetamines keeps you looking snatched, so what’s the big deal?
She drives a pink Audi R8 in a way that can only be described as “aggressively bad”. Will absolutely back into a parked car, shear off several inches of paint, and drive away without noticing.
She has a French Bulldog puppy named Chachki , who eats straight off the table at restaurants and does NUMBERS on Instagram when she dresses him up in his lil outfits from Neiman & Barkus but like... she doesn’t even like dogs that much. She doesn’t like animals at all. That’s how we know she’s a sociopath!
her weheartit board probably does a better job of summing her up than this long-winded intro
Touch this skin, what's it feel like to you?
I'm a nightmare dressed as a dream come true
I'm getting my tens, all I see is these fives
Pussy on point, nails sharp like knives
Stone the stones, I got stones on my ring
'Cause I'm opulent, bitch, that means I own everything!
Eyes on me, and my looks break necks
Modelesque body, serve straight up sex
You can never get enough, I'm the bitch that you love
Just call me the Queen of Clubs...
Her best friend's a plastic surgeon
And when her Beamer's in the shop, she rolls the Benz
Manis and pedis on Sundays and Wednesdays
Money from mommy, lovely in Versace
Costly sprees, it’s on at Barney’s
And I love to watch her go through fifty g's calmly
She gets naughty with her Pilates body
and thinks it's really funny when her nose goes bloody,
because the blow’s so yummy and it keeps her tummy empty,
and makes her act more friendly
turnnoffyourmind
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izzy806
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