A Letter To The Ex-Party Girl Who Won’t Let Go

A Letter To The Ex-Party Girl Who Won't Let Go

Dear (insert name of beloved ex-party girl),

Here we are, trudging through our early twenties. It’s been a good ride so far. Remember the days when we were minors, sneaking into bars, promising the bouncers we’ll behave if they make an exception just this once? I’ll never forget remember the times we shared in our favorite, shitty college town bar, and I wouldn’t trade the scores of blackouts and pass-outs for the world. It’s a good thing we were too hammered to notice that every 2 a.m. drunken food session contained more than half of our daily caloric intake.

But things are different now. The low grade alcohol has caught up to us, and the hangovers we once persevered through now leave us comatose. The days of gen eds are gone, and we no longer have the luxury of bullshitting our way through freshman-level courses. We’re stuck in the library most nights, our eyes glued to the pages of costly textbooks, the fluorescent lights wreaking havoc on our once carefully moisturized and maintained skin.

I’m writing to you because you seem to be stuck in the days that once were, a time when the idea of frat hopping and jungle juice gave us life. Wake up, friend. You can’t keep mourning the past, and quite frankly, I don’t know why you would. You were straight up ratchet back then, and I say that out of both love and fear (mostly fear).

This isn’t about the fact that you drink milk out of red solo cups and listen to Skrillex on occasion (though I really think you should seriously reconsider your choice of music, because seriously, what the fuck are you thinking). I don’t even care that you still resort to the freshman-esque idea of “blackout shades” by draping a thick black bed sheet over your window in lieu of an actual curtain. Your weird habits are what make you who you are, or at least make you enough of a loser to associate with me, and I appreciate each one of them. It’s your attitude that I wish I could change, friend. I see you pining for the club every time we pass it on the way to the grocery store. I recognize the pain in your face when you hear freshmen screaming obscenities on the walk home from frat row. I know you wish that was you. I know you crave shots ’round the clock, and I know you hate me for reminding you that 4 o’clock on a Monday is just not the appropriate time. Why would you want to pregame chapter, anyway? Fucking freak.

We still have fun, don’t we? We go out on occasion, though we never wind up in the same place because we always resort to sending the “U up?” texts to our respective hookup buddies around midnight. That doesn’t mean we don’t party, though. Just last week we drank half a bottle of wine and went to bed at a reasonable hour. I think someone made a joke at some point that we giggled at. Didn’t you enjoy that? Didn’t you?!

I hope the point of this letter is not lost on you, because you will always be my BFF. I just want to take this opportunity to extend to you a formal invitation to be a grownup with me. We still have the majority of our lives to look forward to, assuming your liver doesn’t crap out on you any time soon. We still get to graduate. We still get to travel the world. We still get to get married and have babies, though I know the idea repulses you to your very core.

I just ask that you appreciate your youth, but remember that you are no longer a freshman. I ask that you stop moping around and appreciate your top-notch education and sub-par GPA. Most of all, I ask that you invite me as your plus one to whatever company parties the future has in store for you, because you’re going to get shitfaced, and I’m going to want to see it.

A concerned friend

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Lucky Jo

Lucky Jo is a former and current TSM writer who likes her men how she likes her coffee: way too hot and unforgivably bitter. She graduated from the University of Missouri in 2016, proving that C's do in fact get degrees. She now spends her days working for a social media marketing agency, hiking with her dachshund, and trying to bring back the scrunchie. Hate mail and goat memes can be sent to

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