Girls don’t have to know other girls to hate them. To sum up how girls interact with other girls follows as such: I don’t know you, I have never met you, I will never meet you- but the mere idea of you stresses me out and makes me crave sangria at eleven am.

The targets of obsessive Facebook stalking / asking everyone you have ever met “is she cuter than me?” / dissecting every picture they have together and wall interaction they have makes us hate them. He could be dating Mother Theresa now and you would still wish she didn’t exist / gained fifty pounds over the summer. I like to think I have been on both ends of this, and not just the drunk (fine, sober) stalking end.

Maybe there is some chick out there that I snagged her man from and she went through my profile pictures. Luckily my personality has granted me the advantage to never have another girl hate me, because I am ridiculous and attending an all girls private high school made it impossible to hide my crazy. Think about it, if you went to school with 799 other girls it would be really hard not to give men code names after vegetables / talk about how you cried in UP / want to lose fifteen pounds. If a girl stalks my profile she will discover that I sleep outside from time to time, ride segways with a helmet, like to photoshop myself with Draco Malfoy, and have the most terrifying child model headshot rivaling that of Chucky. How can you hate that? If anything you will evaluate your relationship with whoever I hooked up with before you did and think what the fuck was he thinking? If he put up with that shit for so long, what the hell does he see in me? Then you should thank me for making you look normal, when I bet deep down you are just as bat shit crazy as me. By thank me I mean buy me a drink at the bar so couples stop sending me mixed threesome signals with their rum and diet cokes.

Its the worst feeling in the world when he moves on before you do and she’s some super cute, super involved, super super chick that makes you fucking hate the word super. Then your friends blatantly lie to your face, as girlfriends often do, about how you’re skinnier or maybe she doesn’t go out a lot or your friend has heard from her cousin’s friend’s twin that she is a bitch. In reality you knowng her personality is just as super as her size 0 J.Crew jean wearing ass. How I wish I could afford those genes, I mean jeans. 

We all want to be the one that got away, that girl he regretted dumping, the hottest girl he has ever banged whose family, friends, and roommates though was “the one.” Or if you’re not a stage five clinger like I am, maybe you just want him to think of you sometimes and be like damn, we had some fun ass times together and maybe, just maybe, be missed for like a split second before he goes back to being so in love with his super new girlfriend who can eat a cheeseburger and not have to run five miles the next day because she has the metabolism of a newborn infant. Truth is, you probably meant as much to him as he meant to you. Just a phase, a fling, a slampiece,  and it sucks. The whole meaningless cycle of dating / hooking up / avoiding eye contact in the library sucks more than a drunk girl during that time of the month. 

If anything we should band together as the past, present or future, bed buddies of some asshole. We shouldn’t hate each other because we are all fucking special and super and beautiful on the inside and out blah blah motivational speech. Chances are the girl before you, and even the girl after you, are not “the one.” Chances are that one guy we all have in common will end up being a garbage man married to a waitress with like, I don’t know, seven illegid kids of every age, race, and sex imaginable. (JK he will probably be the next Brad Pitt and you will mourn his absence for five pounds worth of ice cream and mashed potatoes before snapping out of it like Avril’s Sk8ter girl). Instead, us gal pals should be getting drunk together and have pillows fights telling hilarious / inappropriate stories about said asshole denominator instead of hating each other. But being girls, having estrogen pumping through our bodies and looking forward to winter only because we don’t have to shave our legs, makes us incapable of sharing boys. It is impossible for us not to compare and contrast and evaluate the shit out of his relationship with her vs. his relationship with us. Because we are crazy. I mean, only girls could convince themselves that painted on black pants made of pajama material (aka leggings) is a socially acceptable look with outdoor slippers whose name even suggests that they are aesthetically unappealing. Bat. Shit. Cray. Cray. 

And that’s why we should have a woman president. 

PS

This whole ripping on my own sex was really difficult to post, one pos hating some aspect of the dick owning population coming sooner than your ex boyfriend’s / fuck buddy’s / one night stand’s new girl, because he really was that bad in bed. 

1. If a guy asks you up to his room to “see his lizard” chances are said lizard resides in his pants. If he actually has a pet lizard, ask yourself, do you really want to be that girl who hooked up with the guy who has a lizard? If you answered yes to that, then find me on Facebook- we would be great friends.
2. Waking up half naked, holding your car keys, covered in pizza sauce that makes your room look like a crime scene stops being funny after your freshman year and starts being pathetic on a Wednesday morning.
3. Do not put your first and last name in a guy’s phone. He will find you on the internet, poke you on Facebook, but not friend you, just poke. Or he will be the kind of guy that has a signature at the end of his text messages. 
4. Get a cheap phone. I lose my phone like a mom who just let her kid off it’s leash at a Chuckie Cheese. I am actually at the point where my family is threatening to take me off the family plan if I lose it again. Then again, having a phone would prevent me from 99% of the poor decisions that I make.
5. When taking your dirty laundry home for your mother to do be sure to take out your slutty underwear. You know the kind your friends got you as a joke in high school, but now you actually wear it… on a regular basis. Or do what I do and say your pleather American Apparel skirt and underwear with “Down For Anything” written the ass belongs to your roommate and must have gotten stuck in your laundry.
6. Remember, the people you hook up with don’t magically disappear the morning after you return from your stride of pride. Just because there are 20,000 people at your school doesn’t mean you can successfully avoid them- your life is a joke so chances are you will see them everywhere, everyday, for the rest of your college life. all together. in the same room. they will become best friends.
7. The word “job” is in these acts for a reason.
8. It’s not like you survive the Freshman 15 and never have to worry about gaining weight again. There needs to be some nickname associated with turning 21, all that tequila has got to go somewhere if it doesn’t end up on the sidewalk / being burned off while on top. 
9. Pace yourself on the embarrassing shit you do, the list of places you cannot show your face is rapidly increasing- including your Friday morning lecture. Damn you bar dwelling GSI. 
10. If you’re going to sleep with someone, your drunk half will find a way. Putting on spanx, pretending its that time of the month, or not shaving your legs just triggers your aggressive drunkass will think “challenge accepted” or more realistically, “c HAl eng3 acceeepd”

In some ways it is too much life real life, in other ways it has features I wish existed in my day to day social interactions. I have a few different block lists, ex-boyfriends I am still facebook friends with (thats a joke- I drunk unfriend them all), their friends, annoying girls, family members, adults in general, anyone I have hooked up with, anyone I want to hook up with … basically only a few people (5) are avaible to less cool AIM chat with. Less cool because Facebook still doesn’t allow glitter graphics or a song on my Facebook profile page, I miss you myspace oh so much.

At the same time if a boy I am crushin’ on is available on Facebook, but doesn’t chat me I go into crazy girl mode. It’s like we are in the same room and he is ignoring me. What did I do wrong? Nothing. I try not to take it personally, but if its a day I haven’t had chocalte or fast food (worry not, these days are few and far between) you bet I am going to read into it. Then overthink it, then start drinking over it, then drunk text you. Unless I deleted your number. Which is a win win for my alcoholism, but a lose on every psychological front. I am not crazy, just a girl. Maybe if you gave us the right to vote sooner I would be more calm.

Do you, like me, give yourself rules on chatting a young gentleman caller? Like, okay, If he is still on in three mintues I will say something. But it can’t be an even number. Or on a time that ends in a zero or a five, thats super obvious. He will totally realize the time and like totally hate me. News flash, most guys don’t know what day of the week it is, lead alone the time so take a shot of whiskey (or sip, like Mad Men) and calm. it. down.

I also hate the “boy is typing…” status. First off the “…” is unncessary, its like oh my god what is he typing, oh Facebook doesn’t know either, the mystery, the intrigue! Usually followed by a disappointing “what’s up?” Girls, you know you’re lucky if he even uses puncuation. I don’t what to know when he is typing because, then if he begins, and then stops, and sends nothing I feel like I said the wrong thing. Like asking “what’s up?” stumped him. What a loaded question that really is. Then there is the whole when someone signs off and you say something additional it becomes a private message. I hate that. Then I look like a stage five clinger for accidently messaging you, only you / he doesn’t know it was accidental.

Even WORSE, yes it’s possible, is when your'e texting and he doesn’t reply, but he is on Facebook chat. Then you can’t even justify his lack of response with driving, or sleeping, or death. Or when you’re texting back and forth with like a mintue in between each message, then out of nowhere he just ends the correspondance. Like a hit and run, only more emotionally damaging.

As if it wasn’t abundantly clear from the few girls you haven’t blocked from your newsfeed, this is how we spend our countless hours of on Facebook. Instead of reading, or working out, or even drinking we sit here. Because we all had really long, exhausting days of doing meaningless bitch work. 

• Post youtube videos of small animals, music videos with lyrics about their lives, and texts from last night.
• Upload albums with titles from popular songs about being young / drinking / going out / hating boys.
• Post video recordings on their friends walls about how much they miss each other.
• Make lunch plans / going out plans so everyone can know how busy and popular they are.
• Have statuses complaining about work or working out or food.
• Go through the prom albums of girls from your High School that are years younger than you and judge all of their dresses.
• Check the pages of ex boyfriends / ex hook ups .. the ones you haven’t blocked.
• Check the pages of ex boyfriends / ex hook ups current flings.
• Check the pages of your friends exs .
• Check the pages of your friends current men.
• Make events about losing their phones and needing numbers.
• Go through albums of wedding pictures and baby pictures of people you don’t know and have no relation to.
• Show one group of friends pictures of how attractive the girls in your other group of friends are.
• Post links and images of things they want but cannot afford.
• Call them out on all the drunk embarrassing shit they did last night.
• Change their profile pictures to embarrassing pictures of one of their friends.
• Comment or like their friends relationship changes. 

Okay so you may not do all of these things, but you know you have done at least one. Guys don’t do any of this. I have done and will continue to do all of it. 

1. There will never be another Twilight movie made ever again
2. Myboyfriend doesn’t have LinkedIn, so I have one less social profile to check on a daily basis to make sure he is not friends with skanky girls) aka any girl that isn’t me) that just leaves Facebook, Twitter, Google+, Spotify, and Instagram
3. Sims 3
4. Kanye West shutter shades are no longer in style ever since the cast of Jersey Shore started wearing them; and a human population that needed the cast of Jersey Shore to do something to realize it was never in style in the first place
5. I don’t have menopause
6. The restaurant employees who didn’t walk into the bathroom while I was throwing up pineapple pizza, I didn’t know I ate the night before, during Sunday morning brunch
7. Remembering to delete all of the dick pics I have on my phone before my cousins accidently find them when trying to play angry birds
8. Taylor Swift is still single and still writing songs about men either five years older or five years younger than her
9. Remebering the boy I had a crush on freshman year of high school, whose AIM screenname was my MySpace password, so I could delete it
10.  Michael’s Arts and Craft coupons for “40% off one regular price item” applying to Martha Stewart’s 12 packs of glitter so I can feel like Ke$ha while still wearing pants
11. Hersey Kiss Christmas commercials
12. An iPhone case that prevents my phone from shattering on impact when dropped. Oh wait, it still shattered. Nevermind.
13. The opportunity to reject an ex’s friend request on Facebook
14. Text message, so I never have to talk to my parents on the phone
15. Strong female role models, like the casts of the Real Housewives. I mean physically strong- I have never seen anyone flip a table, or throw a drink, with such muscle definition achieved solely through Pilates.

Here, in bulleted tumblr form, I present to you the highlights- or what the standard real life young adult would more likely refer to as low points / rock bottom- of my final Welcome Week. I capitalized those W’s because a week of copious alcohol consumption and enough walks of shame to look like a 5k for the latest celebrity cause, deserve proper noun status. 

• I finally had a drink bought for me! Alas, it was not from a sexy, brooding man, sitting at the bar with a tumbler of whiskey and reading The Norton Anthology of Poetry. Tt was purchased for me, by a late 20’s early 30’s couple. NO, it was not an invitation to a threesome, that would be a moon walk considering the motivation of this rum and diet coke. Long story short, I was standing at the bar for like a year waiting to order a fishbowl.  Apparently I looked more pathetic, unhappy, and lonely than usual because that’s exactly why he personally brought it to me. Yes, they didn’t send it over- the male of the drink sending duo brought it over to me and said I really looked like I needed a drink, because I had been standing there so long. Alone. And sober. 
• A nice young man on the football team told my roomie I have a nice ass and asked her to invite me to their threesome. 
• My butt got intentionally grazed THREE times at the bar within five minutes. After the first time I was all, oh, that was an accident, it’s just crowded; however, after the third time I was like ef this and walked around the bar with my ass sliding along the wall looking so everyone, and their hands, were in front of me. If you wanna touch my butt just ask, I am very proud of it for being white, and a ginger.
• On an non bar and ass related note, I slept outside. I went from sleeping in my attic room, to the living room futon, to the freaking bathroom floor, to the fire escape. It was that hot in my apartment. It was actually super comfortable and I the wireless reached so I watched a couple of episodes of Mad Men till I passed out. Not so fun was remembering it gets bright outside when the sun comes up, and only remembering I was in my underwear when I was standing up to give directions to a group of gentlemen who jumped the parking lot fence of my building as a cut through for football pregame parties. Whatever, it’s like wearing a bathing suit. Too bad I was in my grannie panties that say “Santa’s Little Helper” on the ass. FYI I do have a thing for undies with text on the behind. 
• I weighed myself! And am subsequently only drinking my calories from now on. Which is actually the problem in the first place. I am now attempting to exclude carbs from my diet. My co-worker said I will last a week. I told her she has more faith in me than I do.
• I spent forty hours with my sorority sisters practicing rush recruitment. I now believe I could win the game of Survivor and am seriously considering applying for the show. In fact, Survivor should be held in any sorority house, and not an island that people already live on without a cash reward. 

Just because it’s been said that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, doesn’t mean it applies to gingers.

Besides the kitchen snafu, which I will mention later in this post, I have had a fantastic week. I am writing for two papers on campus and I am taking twenty credits, plus my sorority position designing shit. But no one wants to hear about me going all Ke$ha on them and talking about throwing glitter and going insane and making it rain (which Michigan seems to be doing enough of on its own). Honestly, I think it would be pretty hard to throw glitter. I feel like it’s would follow a similar pattern to the paper airplanes I made in middle school gym, I would throw it really hard, then it would fly straight up, only to come back and hit me in the face. No one wants glitter in their mouth, even if it is from a poorly applied vajazzle. 

Why do I plan on killing myself this semester with academics this semester, one may wonder? The best advice I received, from the same girl both times I was dumped, was to stay busy. Here is my logic, I am beating the male species to the punch. I am dumping all men, because I like to think it’s my choice I go to bed alone, in my own sweatshirt, and wake up to texts from my mom. Not to say that I am trying to date women now. I am simply putting myself on the disable list and am out for the season, my therapy being writing- but I am still on the roster. 

At one naive phase in my life, lets call that a fortnight ago, I believed that it was only fraternity gentlemen in the wrong; however, I have recently come to the stark realization that it’s all college men. Just because I am the common denominator doesn’t put me in the wrong. I am saying that more to convince myself, and less to convince you. I mean, I am a senior. I should have something serious to focus on since I am no where close to having enough credits for my Mrs. degree, nor am I seeing someone I could fake a pregnancy with and trap in a relationship. I really have it hard here, guys. 

I am also removing myself from making moves because frankly, it’s getting rather expensive for me to have a closet full of spandex and get drunk enough for you to be interesting. A male cheerleader friend of mine asked why it was costing so much for me to go the bar. Unknown to me having a vagina apparently means there are always guys who want to bone you, and know the way to your heart spanx is through an open window we hopeless romantics call eighty cent drink night. Much to the dismay of my self-esteem, but at the ever increasing joys of my alcoholism, I have taken this to heart. Well, the place where my heart should be. 

Now, about the kitchen. I have struggled with domesticity for years, in the same fashion my depressed cat struggles with peeing in a kitty litter and not every chair planted on white carpet. I try to hold it, but I never quite seem to make it. For once in my life I was trying to do a good thing, make some red velvet cupcakes for a friend who is bumming. But no, the gods of marriage refuse to give me any redeeming qualities a parent would find that compensate for my inevitable drunkenness the first time I meet those future parents-in-law. I added medium eggs, not large, did two cups of water instead of one and one fourth, and I burned my hand- all while the fire alarm is going off, and I am screaming curse words in such an eloquent string of patterning that the unassuming maintenance man in the parking lot below though it was a rap song. 

In conclusion, I am replacing romantic exploits with writing. Not baking. Already I am getting more than all of my years as a college girl combined, and whomp goes the ginger.

I hate spring almost as much as I hate summer (sweating, sunburn, frizzy hair, lakes made of 75% pee, and an abundance of youths flocking to the air conditioned mall’s Starbucks). While I realize I hold the minority opinion here, I am not taking this stance to be some sort of season hipster who chooses to dislike something simply because the majority enjoys it. 

The only reason people love spring is because it’s not winter, and loving something for what it’s not, instead of what it is (a gloomy soggy mud dumpster littered with travel sized plastic Popov bottles) is fucking stupid. It’s the same reason we have an orange hormonal tween whose parents’ won’t monitor his social media, for president. People voted for Trump just because he wasn’t Hillary. AND LOOK WHERE WE ARE NOW. Amber Wooster said it best, “I’m just thankful that Syria didn’t bomb us for poisoning the children of Flint or gassing natives at Standing Rock.”

Politics aside, we can all agree on one thing– hating the word “moist.” (Personally, I think “discharge” is worse.) Moist is only acceptable when describing the flavorful layers of an angel food cake. Sorry to deflate your spring boner, but it’s THE DEFINITION OF MOIST. Every surface you touch, walk or drive on from April to June sounds like a clapping puke covered toddler - just a bunch of brown squishy smacking. That palpable moisture in the air is the earth sweating, the pits of our pubescent planet working overtime to detox after the holiday binge. I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to hydroplane in my heeled boots walking from my car into a Cracker Barrel. 

But cuter outfits! I feel my cutest when I’m wearing so many layers my body shape is just “rectangle” and even the silhouette of Big Foot has more wasit definition than I do.  The harder it would be to describe me for a police sketch, the better. That is my style. Which is why at least my first wedding will be in the winter. But here we are, knee deep in engagement parties and bridal showers. Good luck wearing heels that won’t sink into the shit colored depths faster than my tanking credit score. Don’t even think about wearing anything white or pastel, unless you’re trying to be a walking example of the “before” outfit in a Tide Pod commercial. I too have been tempted to break out a seasucker skirt, having seen enough Old Navy commercials spreading spring positive propaganda to have me temporarily believe spring isn’t that bad. Then I look outside…

But all of the snow is gone! You know what that crispy, deep, sound buffering, white blanket was covering? All of the garbage our morbidly obese country won’t walk five extra feet to throw into a trashcan. Once the snow has melted the state of Michigan looks like a post-apocalyptic fairground sprinkled with used napkins, plastic utensils, and one flip flop that always has me thinking, who threw just half a pair of flips out the window? Like in what scenario is that the appropriate response besides, “Bet you won’t throw one flip flop out the window.” I like snow. Snow means leggings, and slippers, and replacing vanilla flavored coffee creamer with peppermint flavored vodka. Melted snow means clear roads suburban moms treat like massive sidewalks to jog down with their leashed children. But when I honk, I’m the asshole? JK I don’t honk! That’s rude. I blast some v sexually explicit rap. 

But nature! You mean the crusty leaf buds dotting tree branches like my unshaven legs after wearing my fancy going out leggings for a week straight? Wake me up when the leafs can provide a function, like shade or musical festival crown materials. Don’t even get me started on flowers. People lose their GOD DAMN minds over these little uncircumsized petal dicks popping out of the soil. But I have news for you, know what’s better than flower buds? FULL. ASS. BLOOMED. FLOWERS. 

It’s just a super confusing time in the year because I want to wear flannel under a quilted vest, but I also want to drink iced coffee and paint my nails Bikini So Teeny by Essie, and those are two aesthetics that should never be paired together– like drinking Coors Light while nibbling on cucumber tea sandwiches. Anyways, I’m now emotionally drained. Rant over, time to take a nap. Wake me up when I can drink on a patio without a jean jacket.