Relationships can be tricky in college. Literally everyone is telling you not to settle down because you need to live up these four years. But with all the date parties, mixers, themed gatherings, random events and nights out, there are so many chances to meet people. So what happens when you do meet someone that you kind of like. You start to text all day long, meet up with him before and after nights out, and sometimes you might even reach the point of sober hangouts and sleepovers. But it’s college so neither one of you necessarily want to put a title on it. You’ve found yourself in a fling. College flings can be so fun. It’s like dating someone but without all the pressure and expectations of being someone’s girlfriend.
But, all good things must come to an end and sometimes there isn’t a solid reason why you and your fling drift apart. This puts you in a weird spot. It’s not necessarily a breakup, but it definitely feels you leaving a little empty.
Girls’ Night. Those two words in that order will perk up the ears of any sorority girl, usually followed by an “Oh my god yaaaaaaas!” I don’t know how we have convinced ourselves that those are the best nights ever, because this is how it usually goes:
- 7:41 PM: Start curling hair.
- 8:14 PM: “Is it too early to start drinking?”
- 8:17 PM: “Yeah, I’m going to start drinking now.” *pours glass of wine*
- 8:41 PM: Finish curling hair.
- 8:45 PM: Paint face white.
- 8:58 PM:Powder face until tan.
What the hell am I doing?
Here I was, half naked, standing in the middle of a strange room in a strange apartment with, well, a stranger. As my dress was being lifted over my head and my nipples poked out to the world as they reached the cold air, I quickly weighed the pros and cons of my decision. Do this and pull off the most badass, sexually-charged revenge plot of all time or put my dress back on and walk out, never to be faced with this perfect moment again.
Fuck it, I said to myself. I leaned forward, and planted a kiss on my ex-boyfriend’s little. His female little.
Dating — no — finding a boyfriend is confusing. There is an unspoken series of events that must take place in order for couples to succeed in this day in age. It starts with an Instagram follow. You start off slow with consistent likes on every IG post and then he hits you with that like on a post from seven weeks ago where your butt looked good, and maybe a flirty comment or two. Then two very important things must happen in either order: you text or you hook up. If you’re texting, it means the eventual hookup is inevitable. If you’re hooking up, it means you’ve done the most intimate thing two people can do with no intimacy whatsoever. But if it’s good and consistent, the Wednesday bored-in-class text is right around the corner.
The next step toward coupledom is “talking” — you are both texting and hooking up, and you think the other person likes you, but you’re not sure, so you basically just go along with it to see if they’re bored of you.
The most basic of the planners, this girl probably picked one up after realizing that everyone else had it. Sure, she wrote down her communications/hospitalities/public relations classes in the little boxes, but honesty? The odds of her actually attending those are pretty slim. Her planner is filled with stickers of tropical drinks, “date night” scribbled on multiple days each week, and color coded sorority events. When she’s not busy getting drunk off of vodka tonics at ladies night, she can be found curing her hangover at Starbucks and calling her planner her “bible.”
EC is, dare I say, the step above Lilly that all girls eventually take. Maybe it’s senior year, and she’s balancing her life of getting freshmen-year drunk, going to an internship, and hooking up with the guy who will never commit. Maybe it’s postgrad and she’s trying to organize her life of having a shitty minimum wage job, making people think that her life is cool on Instagram, and finally getting her own Netflix account. Whatever it is, this bitch wants to be taken seriously. But you know, “still able to get wine drunk on a Wednesday,” seriously. And despite her $8 coffee drink and $60 planner, she’ll tell everyone and their therapists that she has a $10 discount code. And no, we don’t want it.
“Wait. Are they stuck?” I asked, as I felt myself slip in and out of consciousness.
“Yeah…I, uh, I think so,” he said from down below, as he peered into my vagina with fear and concern.
Just an FYI: The moment a guy looks at your vagina with anything other than pure amazement, you know you’re in trouble. I tried to make eye contact with him as my vision went fuzzy. Thanks to a recent fifty shades of bad ideas novel, I had some big, metal balls wedged so far up my body, I was pretty sure that I was digesting them.
A dress and heels: “I’m better than every person here and I want you all to know it.”
This girl is a try-hard in every aspect, except when it comes to her academics. She’ll spend most of class browsing Pinterest, staring at her perfectly manicured nails, and drinking Starbucks (despite the fact that she doesn’t actually like coffee). Her dad probably thinks she’s the coolest thing since the invention of the drive-thru, hence her endless supply of cash to spend on a closet so extensive that the weekends aren’t enough to showcase it all. Understandable, but you’re still like, “Isn’t there a law against wearing a bar-appropriate dress to a lecture hall?”
Riding boots, leggings, and a sweater: “I have somehow managed to cling to my self-respect long enough to make an actual effort.”
She’s pretty down to earth, but then again, you would be, too, if you were a goddamn robot. Seriously, how does a functioning college student have enough energy to wake up each morning and put together an outfit that makes her look like she came straight from a J.Crew photo shoot? There’s no logical explanation for this other than assuming that she gives a shit about her overall presentation, which completely baffles those of us who know how hard it is to nap while wearing riding boots. You’re occasionally jealous of how put together she is, but this feeling fades when you think about how constricting skinny jeans are.
This past weekend, I went out with a group of girlfriends. From the moment we got to the bars, until the second we went home, I noticed something. There was always a guy talking to my friend Marissa. Drunk, sober, short, tall, handsome, cave troll, whatever — it was constant. There was practically a line of guys scoping her out, and when one would leave, the next would swoop in to talk to her. When we’d leave one bar, whichever lucky guy had her attention would rally his friends in an attempt to come with us — to come with her — to the next. And this was hardly a one-night occurrence. Guys love Marissa. And it’s not because they saw her making a crowd laugh, or because they heard her solving mathematical equations. It’s not because she seems career-driven, and it’s not because she’s sweet. Marissa is beautiful. Really, really beautiful. She is thin, and she is blonde, and she has big boobs, and she is beautiful.
A lot of other girls at those bars were pretty. Most of them were average-looking. Some of them were ugly. But only a few were beautiful.
“How does this shit always happen to me?” I wondered as I lay on the bed, face down, ass up. I couldn’t even appreciate my tailor-made shit/ass pun, because I was too nervous about what I was getting myself into, or, er — what was about to get into me.
I had said yes to #buttstuff, and now? Well, I was fucked, or about to be. In the, uh, butt.
It’s taken me a long time to build up the courage to do this. I never really thought this day would come, but I’m sick of living a lie. I’m sick of pretending. I’m sick of fan-girling over someone that I’m not a fan of. I’m not quite sure what’s pushed me over the edge. Maybe it was the conceited Instagram posts. It could be the annoying bee emojis. Or, it might be because I think her music is just okay. Whatever it is, I feel like it’s time to speak up. It’s time to be true to myself, and it’s time to pave the way for others who have been too scared to speak up.
The truth is, I don’t like Beyoncé. There. It’s out there. I said it. I don’t like her.
1. Heaven and Hell
What it is: Partygoers dress in either white or red, depending on whether they’ve decided to represent heaven, or hell, respectively. Angel wings and devil horns are often worn. The basement is often decorated with firey landscapes to represent hell, while the upper levels are decorated with clouds to represent heaven.
Who it offends: Angels and demons.
Why it’s offensive: Angels and demons come in all forms and it’s ignorant to appropriate their cultures with the assumption that all angels have wings, and all devils have horns. For instance, a girl in my rival sorority might be Lucifer, herself, and she actually has a beautiful complexion and blonde hair.
Ray Ban Aviators
Protector of thy dignity and defender against premature crows feet
Though we may be different-
Brown ombré, classic black, or of mirrored luster,
We have much in common
Reminder of preciousness nature of time
As they meet an untimely fate
Roughly with each semester
(or beach trip)
Qualities most admirable
That of beauty, perseverance, and steadfast resistance to FOMO
A faithful friend
And servant to the greater good
For not making everyone else super fucking late
You’re all welcome
[wurd] | interjection
1. An alternative to “okay”; a response used when an interaction warrants a response, but you literally have nothing to say.
“I think I’m going to grab something to eat before the movies.”
2. Affirmation; “really”?
“Did you know she’s thinking of transferring?”
[dohp] | adjective
1. Interesting; cool.
“Hey, if we got ice cream later, that’d be pretty dope.”
2. Slang for marijuana.
“He’s on dope.”
My parents are very well off. They both have stable jobs where they are at the top of their respective fields and are working constantly. They own property and multiple cars and when they can get away from work long enough, they go on vacations. My parents are rich, and I don’t think that’s something to be ashamed of.
If you send a girl to Target, she’s only going in for one thing.
And that’s it. Really.
But first, she has to walk by the Starbucks in the front of the store.
And she’s going to want a venti iced skinny mocha chai with a thousand pumps of caramel to tote around with her while she shops.
When she starts drinking her venti iced skinny mocha chai with enough caramel in it to trigger a diabetic coma, she’s going to start to feel guilty.
So she’s going to go get two three-pound weights, a yoga mat, and a stability ball.
The hard part is dealing with the fact that life moves on. The whole time you were working on putting the pieces of your life together, so was he. And now? Now he’s over you too. Now he’s doing his own thing. Now he’s changed, and grown, and evolved, just like you have. But in that time, he’s become someone that you don’t know. He’s become a stranger. And at first you don’t realize it. You think he’s this preserved thing that will always be there. He’ll always have his hair cut the same way, use the same aftershave, and deep down, he’ll always love you.
But then you see him.
Penises are great. They’re functional, they’re fun to play with, and they are always available to remind us that we’re absolute babes…and that we can get guys to do pretty much anything for us. That’s not to say all dongs were created equally. They come in all different shapes and sizes. All of them, however, are funny-looking.
1. Grower (NOT a Shower)
It’s a sad life for this guy, because he catches way too much heat from his boys in the locker room. This will prove beneficial to you, though. He’s got an “ugly duckling” of a dick that miraculously grows into a beautiful swan when you call upon it. As is true with all ugly ducklings, though, he is gifted enough to satisfy, but not so confident that he knows exactly what he’s packing. I call it a win.
All of the beautiful gifts you bought me. The flowers “just because.” The sweet text messages and the over-the-top dates. Wanting to know all about me, and always wanting to be with me. Getting jealous, in a sweet way, whenever another guy talked to me. Getting jealous, in a scary way, whenever another guy looked at me. The way your eyes would glaze over, those nights when you would drink too much. And how you would look at me, through me, when the drinking took control. How you would embarrass me in public. How I would be scared to come home with you. How you brought up my past, and made me feel bad about it. How you yelled at me because you weren’t my first. Those times you would call me a bitch. A slut. A cunt. A skank who was still in love with her ex, a person I no longer had contact with. The way you would check my social media. The way you would search my room, whenever I left you alone in it. How you went through my personal belongings, went through my stuff to criticize, shame, and devalue me. The way you would say unimaginably horrible things to me, and mock me as I cried. And then the way you would apologize the next day. The way you would start the cycle over. The way you promised that you would change.
And the way that I forgave you. Every. single. time.
Missionary (With The Lights Off)
What It Is: Girl lays down. Guy lays on top of her. They “make love.”
Liking missionary with the lights off is basically like saying you don’t enjoy sex. At all. Or you don’t like the person you’re having sex with. Or you don’t like yourself. Yes, you’re technically “doing it.” But let’s be real. You’re sitting there pretending that he’s Chris Pratt, and he’s daydreaming about some Victoria’s Secret model and trying to last more than two minutes. Chances are you still feel sort of self-conscious about your body, or worse, you don’t like looking at his body. Neither of these will make you want to get off. But considering that missionary is your favorite, you probably don’t really care about getting there anyway. What can you say? You’re a die-hard romantic who cares more about (vom) his pleasure.
Chance Of An Orgasm: LOL. None for you, bye.
The Ones Who Win Everything
Everyone hates this sorority for the same reason everyone hates the Yankees. They’re the best. They always win. Did they “buy” their winnings when they spent $3000 more on their LipSync competition than everyone else did? Maybe. But they still won. Just like they win everything — Greek Week, Homecoming floats, some random chapter’s boring ass philanthropy, they won it. And they cheered for it — oh, how they cheered. Their chant is like nails on their chalkboard, but maybe it’s just because you’re tired of hearing their name.
One minute, everything’s great. He’s texting you back, you’re procrastinating your homework because finding out if you two are more like Noah and Ally or Sandy and Danny is more important than school. Then BAM. Out of no where, you’re with three of your friends, on your bedroom floor, deciphering texts like mad scientists, looking for any possibility or inkling that he may have the same feelings as you have. We make this way harder and way more stressful on ourselves than it should be.
I’m sorry that you have to answer questions about how I’m doing to your family and our old friends. I’m sorry that I call someone new my best friend. I’m sorry that I made you responsible for a lot of my secrets. I’m sorry that I didn’t care more. I’m sorry that we aren’t making all the memories we thought we would. I’m sorry for never uploading those photos of us, and now it would just be weird. And I’m sorry that it is weird. Us not being friends is weird.