Essentially: To meet a man in class, have none.

• Pick a man and sit by him the first day of class. If he wants to bone you, he will sit by you the next class. If he doesn’t sit by you it’s your job to seek him out in your lecture of 284, and sit next to him. Silly boy is just playing hard to get. Oh, you came in first and he is somewhere else? Luckily you got these two things the littler mermaid wants, so you can just get up. If you can’t find him in the sea of children sitting on Facebook and not taking notes just yell out his most obvious physical feature. He probably has some sort of nickname associated with it from his bros.
• The easiest way to figure out a man’s name is if you get to class, like, thirty minutes early, dress as a British royal guard, and stand by the door. As men line up to enter class, ask their name, then announce said name in the following manner (I will give you a script to make it a little easier) “Now entering the room: Hermes McGregor.” Then knock your staff, yes you have a staff, on the ground twice.*It just took me an embarrassingly long time to think of a man’s name I could use that I haven’t had now awkward relations with, who would read this and think it’s about them. 
• Dropping your pencil? Kid’s don’t even know what a pencil is these days with their hands on some set of keys at all times. Drop your computer. As he bends down to help you pick up the assorted pieces of your MacBook air, lock eyes. Chances are he will think you’re a dumbass for buying a MacBook air in the first place- but seriously, what were you thinking? If he is rich he will offer you buy you a new one, if he is not- then he’s not worth talking to. The only size I am concerned about is the circumference of your wallet. 
• As soon as you find out a man’s name your homework is to write his first and last in different combinations with your fist and last name. Then sit in front of him / next to him / on his lap to be sure he sees you’re interested. Be sure to use different colored gel pens and write some in cursive, some block letters, and a dash of hearts. 
• If you haven’t caught on yet, it is key to learn his name. Then you can start saying “Hello, xxxx” and he will have to say hi back because his first thought is that you’re that drunk girl from last weekend with the sick dance  moves, literally sick- your attempt to moonwalk made him vomit. Now you’re on the expressway to Pound Town!
• Sit in front of him and slightly to his left or right so he can see your computer screen. Make it as bright as possible. Then get yo ass on Facebook and creep on him harder than the mass boner the male population got after finding out Taco Bell is going to make Dorito shells. Start with his freshman year homecoming pictures and work your way to the present. If he didn’t get a Facebook until college then he probably also wears all white New Balance sneakers. Ew. Abort mission.
• You have two outfit options for class, both of which send an identical message: purchase men’s basketball shorts and a large t-shirt from a local high school (but do hot girl makeup, more than the usual it took me a half hour to make it look like I am not wearing make up) OR anything neon from Baby Gap (yes, that exists.) His brain is thinking, damn she is DTF- your brain is thinking, now it’s only a matter of time until I can fake a pregnancy and trap him into a pre-nup-less marriage. Cha-ching.
• You may be thinking, all knowing Ging, I am a women studies major, what should I do? 1. Did I ever say that you have to be registered to the classes you attend? I have been sitting in on law lectures at Harvard since I could walk. This is a gross exaggeration, but obviously you need this since you have such a poor choice in majors which leads me to 2. change your major.
• Just always be drunk. 

Note: This is strictly speculation since I chose the rout of an art major and a minor in history of art- where there are ten girls to every guy, 75% of those guys like other guys, and the ones that do like girls, I have already hooked up with. 

I haven’t angry ginger blogged in awhile, since my parents (hey mom) and men of relationshits past (though you will never admit it, will you?) have started to read this blog “not all the time…I haven’t in awhile actually”. Okay, yeah right. So I was like, yeah- let’s go ahead and bring back the sass. I doth dub 2012 the year of me disregarding men and acquiring currency. 

A particular sentiment has been weighing heavily on me for quite some time now, and I am not talking about all the post break weight I have gained that has decided to move in around my hips. I am really hoping I am not the only one who thinks this, because then I am just a horrible friend. But I have a hard time believing the following phrases when courting a gentleman heads south: 

• It’s his loss.
• I’ve always thought he was an asshole.
• You can do so much better than him.
• You’re too good for him.
• He will never do better than you.
• He didn’t deserve a great girl like you.

So then here is what I think, um hello, why didn’t you tell me this in the first place. Oh, you did and I just ignored you because I was too busy planning an ultimately disappointing life on Pintrest because my future will never measure up to my boards? Sounds about right. Us women are a delusional species we are. 

Chances are though, his friends are telling him exactly the same thing, or more likely minor variations of the following, depending on their emotional depth and maturity level:

• She was a bitch.
• You ex is crazy… lets blackout.
• Want to try and get our friend’s younger sister’s friends to ask us to prom?
• She wasn’t right for you.
• She was too controlling. 
• Now you can be fun again.

In both scenarios each side of the failed (duh) duo are hearing the same things. But they both can’t be right, can they? Can both sides actually do better? Is he really an asshole and is she really a crazy bitch? Then maybe they belong together.

Makes that feel like a total waste of time. I have never thought anyone I have had real, sober, feelings for to be an asshole. Except for one… you know who you are. So when my friends tell me such things, it makes my heart cramp up like I tried to run home after eating an entire Taco Bell 12 taco box. And if I was so great, why does every relationship end like a scene from Final Destination? If I thought you were great, how could I possibly do better? But heres the thing, we do (usually) do better. Except for those few in between when we decide that this time “best way to get over someone is to get under someone else” will work, which it never does.

Sometimes I think I rather here supportive things like “better luck next time” or “one man down closer to finding the right one” maybe even an overly cheesy “you can’t hurry love”. But then I think about it and it’s like, who the fuck wants to hear that? We much rather blame it on the person, insisting we are right, they are wrong- classic battle of the sexes. To which I say, “hey besties, you’re right. He was a dick. Let’s blackout.”

Deep down I know though, you see the signs after, then it all makes sense. Neither of you were wrong, things just don’t always work. We can’t all be compatible with each other, if we were, the planet would be a giant (and literal) clusterfuck. And who wins with that? Only the companies selling STD meds, thats who.

I will continue to refer to myself as a recent grad, gripping the remains of college like a seventy-six-year-old woman’s wonder bra- ever combating the weights of change, until the day I am no longer carded.

Use your free student gym membership. This is not me calling you fat. This is me saying you will get fat. You hear all about the Freshman 15 but no one tells you about the post-grad-job-hunt-grad-school-app-twenty-five. The whole taking down Facebook body shot pictures in your twenties has nothing to do with potential employment and everything to do with buying a larger pair of spanx.

Get your parents to buy you as many back to school clothes and shoes as possible. Think your parents won’t fall for that? Play on their emotions, pull the whole, “this is the last time I am going back to school, remember my first day of kindergarten when I wore a navy blue and pink striped dress… J. Crew has one just like it!”  You never realize how inappropriate your wardrobe is until you have to dress business casual every day for a week. Those little black spandex skirts do not count as pencil skirts. Even if you’re wearing black tights under it. Don’t argue with me, you’re still a whore.

Stop complaining about walking places to get food. Holy cow I would love to be able to walk across the street to get a slice. Now I have to cross a freeway, a bum with a questionably full Vitamin Water bottle, and two crosswalks no one stops for. (including myself) I have to fill up my tank twice a week and I have yet to encounter one normal person at a gas station. I could write an entire post about types at the gas station. But it would solely consist of me avoiding eye contact because they are all serial killers, yeah I see you soccer mom. Van of bodies is what that is. Shit.
 
You can’t drink like you used to once you graduate. It’s like waking up on your thirteenth birthday. Yesterday at twelve you could wake up at seven AM and watch MTV music videos in the living room while your parent’s slept in, and wonder what was ever wrong with a little bump and grind in the first place? Instead you wake up like a freaking vampire, something about sunlight before noon burns your eyes so much you realize you need glasses- and not in the cute trendy way you once wanted. My point is, that stupid gene that makes you hate waking up early is the same one that gets you drunk off two glasses of wine, which is really cool at first, until it’s the worst hangover of your life. And you’re driving to work like, how did that happen and why is there a five dollar bill in my bra?

It is physically impossible for me to do shots anymore. Hearing the word “shot” alone makes me throw up my chicken Caesar salad a little. Because that’s all I know how to make. Fucking salads.

 It is also physically impossible for me to stay alert past midnight. I go to bed at eleven. The time I used to start my homework at. I actually wash my face, and brush my teeth, and almost flipped a table like a Real Housewife when I realized I was out of astringent. On the rare occasion I do attend a bar gathering I forget everything at the stroke of midnight. Like an elderly Cinderella. It’s not that I blackout, I just turn into a sleepwalker.

 So here’s the advice part of the post. Don’t graduate. But if you have to then do it from the University of Michigan. Nothing says “I’m ready for the real world” quite like cutting someone off as you merge onto the highway (even though *apparently* they have the right of way) like a “Michigan Alumni” license plate case.

In light of the trees matching my hair color I have chosen to take a hiatus from my eeyore like state and point out the few things that don’t change when you graduate college. I think my writing is having a similar effect on your dreams as watching Criminal Minds while I fall asleep does on mine. For like a split second you think you’re going to have a sex dream about Doctor Reid, but then everyone dies.

 As American R&B and neo soul singer-songwriter, multi-instrumentalist and record producer Anthony J. D'Angelo once said, “Wherever you go, no matter what the weather, there will always be a pasta bar.” You could say my most difficult transition from High School to College would be having classes with the opposite sex, or having to pick out my own clothes. You would be wrong, but you could say that. It would in fact be that I whole-heartedly believed my days of create your own pasta were over. I would wake up in the middle of the night at eleven PM (I went to bed early in High School), sweating, like I just had a dream about Doctor Reid (are you sensing a theme yet?), I was so afraid to lose my beloved pasta bar. My stomach would knot up and a dull appetite-less ache, I could feel my heart beat so fast it felt slow and warm, and I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. Some of you may know this feeling from being dumped, I mean if you ask any current boyfriend or girlfriend we all ended our last relationships. But I managed to move on, enjoy my freedom with other noncommittal foods, like the fleeting mac n’ cheese nights or chicken broccoli bake. Meals I would just hit and quit. Not a single drunken college night went by where I didn’t miss pasta bar, and that nauseous stomach feeling came back (not because I had jungle juice composed primarily of Crystal Palace with a K).

 Before my tale of finding pasta bar again too closely mirrors my love life, I will tell you how it ends… in a fake pregnancy. I’m just kidding… obviously. The days of create your own pastas and pizzas and whatever gross things you people eat (like that one fat kid everyone had in elementary school that put chips on his pizza) never end. My high school had it, it my sorority had it, and my current occupational facility offers it for lunch every Friday. Let me tell you, it is the longest effing line too. Because eating a food traditionally reserved for evening hours is acceptable to consume before noon in the real world! Although alfredo is the only sauce in the family of carbohydrate dressings that varies ever so slightly from location to location, to the point you’re not quite sure if it is good different or bad different, like when the Harry Potter franchise changed Dumbledores.

Which brings me to my second point, your parents will still want you to write thank you cards. There is no correlation between these two topics for me to logically say, “Which brings me to my second point,” but it’s (master) debate season so I can. And I do what I want. I received a tip in the mail at my previous job as a thank you for your help, and my mom wanted me to write them a thank you card. The couple was thanking me so I need to thank them for thanking me. I imagine the whole thing turning into an AOL chain letter where I start anonymously threatening that if they don’t send another thank you card to me, and three friends, by midnight, that their wishes won’t come true and their puppy will be murdered by the ghost of their previous house broken pets. Then I would add a bunch of asterisks that make a vertical wave that you scroll through really fast because glitter graphics aren’t around yet. *B@b! D011~<3~~*** I say thank you cards stop when my birthday parties stop. Which was nine years ago. The exception being High School graduation gifts. I am anxiously awaiting the day future generations don’t have actual graduation parties, just Facebook events everyone RSVPs “maybs” to (because at this point in the demise of English langauge everything will have an abbrev), and they can make a blanket status saying, “Thanks for the checks that all came in the same three cards, I am so lucky to have such wonderful family and friends! hearts hearts hearts.”

Older women / girls/ gay men will always think you’re “cute.” I didn’t even try to transition smoothly to my next point. Remember when you were a freshman (or maybs you’re going through this now) and there were always those two seniors that always managed to look down to you, even though you’re taller and all like wtf how did they do that, and say, “aww you’re just adorable,” or “you’re just too cute” or say they love you after you compliment them? Those girls graduate and turn into the women that wear heels to work, even on casual Friday which just looks stupid with hooded sweatshirts. For the record I did not just add this one to the list because it literally just happened to me. If I compliment your Kate Spade shoes I obviously have some level of style and am therefore not adorable. That voice is used for children and the only child that would possibly be able to identify Kate Spade pumps is Suri Cruise in which case yes, it is adorable. But that kid looks pissed off all the time, so she would probably kick you with her presumably higher heels.

Last, but certainly most (threw you for a curve ball there); your urge to drink during a week night will be just as strong as it was when your liver was intact. Only now, and this is an improvement, you will have a reason to drink besides the first letters of Tequila and Tuesday being the same. For example, "Call Me Maybe" is still on the radio, or you didn’t reach quota, or you don’t think you should be paying a city of Detroit tax from your paycheck because you have no representation in Detroit- just to name a few broad, really general, non-specific examples of office strife.

Girls are freaking nuts, we are- I will be the first to admit it, but part of this has to do how oblivious guys are. We make oursevles crazy over the opposite sexs’ mass volume of stupidity when it comes to understanding us. Now I understand, really I do, that girls are hard to get / figure out / understand but guys- that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to give up completely. Its like guys see a complex girl and are like oh shit, I can’t handle that bundle of effort so I am going to hook up with her slutty friend. I am not saying I am one of these complex girls or one of the slutty ones, just somewhere in the middle. Ladies, being dramatic doesn’t make you complex either. I can’t believe I just said “ladies,” my high school principle would always start her annoucements like that so I have been conditionted to cringe.

All it takes is for one “asshole” to warp a girl’s image of guys forever. Which is sad because one girl’s asshole is another girl’s dream. Wow, I don’t think that could have come out any worse. What I meant to say is to you sure your ex will always be that dick who broke your heart, but give him a few months and block his internet porn and hes the future Mr. so and so of some awesome chick that you, naturally, hate. I am the one who made him that way for you!

Now add to that predisposition for crazy how much girls think. I blame years and years of not being able to vote or work so GUYS its KARMA. Girls will be mad at you before you even talk to them. Girls can convince themselves of LITERALLY ANYTHING. We will justify our actions by any means possible. Never doubt that. Don’t believe me? I am ordering an overpriced raviolio dinner to my place of work.

This is my thought process:

Well, I haven’t had pasta in like months- good job girl on avoiding carbs because vodka doesn’t count- and the reception food is totally gross so I would just end up eating that then ordering the other food anyway because I wouldn’t be full and still craving pasta which I should have done in the first place and I waked around a ton and chairs are heavy so thats like mile jog and like I will work out for two hours tomorrow since I joined a gym instead of one- water aerobics and spin- and I will just chase with sparking water for the rest of the week and leave my credit card at home so I can’t get drunk food either, and I will get a side salad with light fat free no sugar added blah blah blah rasberry vinagrette so I feel fuller faster and eat less carbs.

ALL OF THAT JUST TO BE OKAY WITH EATING PASTA. When we all know I will end up not working out and chasing with orange soda. Yes, girls think this way, in under a minute. Can you even FATHOME what a girl thinks when talking to a guy? I hate texting guys just because I will break down everything he says / doesn’t say / should have said / might actually be saying/ THE SIGNS. My girlfriends do the same, although I am sure I will get some bbms saying “I do not do that, thats just you” and while I apprecaite your efforts of denial, stop kidding yourself. Its our nature. So just delete his number / texts / e-mails to save yourself the brain cells.

I think an example is necessary:

A guy texts just saying “hi.” To a girl we read- I am not using puncuation because this is clearly a bored text, so I bet he sent a bunch out because he didn’t use my name totes impersonal, but its between the hours of noon and five so according to Cosmo that means hes interested in me- omgsecretsigns- but its impossible to greet someone with any shorter of words unless he said yo but thats fun and totally flity, ugh I wish he said yo, what do I say back? How long do I wait to reply? Do I add a smiley? I hate smileys, I hate guys who use smileys. If I say hey you is that too much, or what about hey! then I look too excited. I bet hes mad at me, thats all he said. One word texts are bad. I feel horrible, I should drink now and just work up the confidence to drunk text him back.

Now I may exaggerate slightly to make a point, but its a point we need not forget. Girls are out of their minds. Now go out and order fishbowls and dissect his every word until one of you gets drunk enough to grind on a stranger.

• Purchase a velour sweatsuit in some obnoxious color under the impression you will just wear it around your apartment, progress to wearing that, and only that, to class for about a week.
• Make your status some song lyrics you think are subtle, when in reality everyone’s just seeing how long this will persist until they defriend you.
• Watch Eat, Pray, Love. Check your bank account to see if you could afford to mirror Julia Robert’s lifestyle. Realize you can’t. 
• Decide you have always wanted a tattoo.
• Get a haircut. Hate said haircut. Begin to cry about how much you hate your bangs, end up crying about how much you miss him.
• Start a drinking game with your friends about him. Everytime you say his name, drink. Get drunker quicker than every Twilight drinking game out there.
• Every song on the radio is about you, about him, about us. 
• Hook up with someone. Hook up with someone else. Feel less bad about it. Continue until self esteem is destroyed.
• Let your yoga pants become your going out clothes. When you eat too much at dinner, fold the top band up. Eat everything, then eat nothing. 
• Tell your friend’s you want to crush his soul.
• Feel upset when all of your friends suddenly express their deep seeded dislike for him. 
• Believe your friends when they say you deserve better / can do better / he’s an asshole. 
• Buy shoes.
• Develop a crush on a male friend you have zero actual attraction to.
• Replace your “Fucking Guys” playlist with, “Fuck Guys”
• Learn all of the words to Single Ladies. Scream it is your anthem.
• Begin to drink wine.
• Tell your friends you don’t want to talk about it. Talk only about it for atleast a month.
• Re add his number from his Facebook. Then delete it. Then add it. Then delete. Continue until further notice.
• Make a list of all the things you want to do- start scrapbooking, learn to cook, go running every morning. Do none of these things.
• Wake up in bed with your computer open to his Facebook. Apparently you decided to go through his senior prom pictures last night. You are also wearing his shirt.
• Start working out, because you are focusing on yourself now. Just kidding, you want to lose weight and take a million pictures then hope he sees them.
• Secretly wish you got in some sort of terrible accident where he rushes to the hospital to be by your side and confesses his undying love for you.
• 11:11 is either wishing he would try to win you back, or wishing he gets hit by a car. 
• Do everything he disliked- eat your weight in Middle Eastern food, go out on Wednesday nights, add purple streaks to your hair, cry during The Lion King. 
• Hate every girl he is tagged in Facebook pictures with. Including his sister. 

WHY ARE WE CRAZY LIKE THIS. 

If I had a dollar every time I asked myself, how does that girl have a boyfriend but I don’t? I would have enough money to support my extreme addictions to alcohol and poor decision making. No more printing the $10 off Plan B coupon from their website, I am rich!

But seriously, you guys know what I am talking about. Where he is a cold hard dime piece and she is, well, a six on a good night after a dirty thirty … and a handle. Self deprecating humor aside, I think I am a cute ginger; that is when I decide to get out of bed, sober up and wear something non sweatpants or jersey material, which in itself is a major life triumph. Sure, I can snap into psycho girl with the knocking back of a shot, or be that girl that cries at the Ke$ha concert because of a texting conversation I read far too much into- but what girl isn’t? Oh, that latter part is just me?

As to prevent the assumption that I am shallow, which I am not- trust me, I have little to no standards (fingers crossed you’re eighteen!), there’s always that couple where he is really laid back and chill and she is annoying as fuck. I know love makes you blind, but come on- if your girlfriend’s patronus would be a mosquito, then step back and reevaluate your relationshit. Its like the hot guys either have unattractive girlfriends or one that’s have the attention span of goldfish. Hello newly inspired Taylor Swift song.

Real girl talk, it makes me feel like shit. Then when I get all emo like why am I single, why am I alone, why have I gained twenty pounds, girlfriends tend to feed the lines of “he is just intimated by how self-assured you are” or “he can’t handle a real woman.” Shits straight out of He’s Just Not That into You. Its like hell to the o, I am a confident, funny chick with goals and shit, your parents would fucking love me. Your friends would fucking love me. Why don’t you fucking love me? Anyway, an epiphany like such usually leads to an angry binge drinking night resulting in sleeping with a stranger whose Facebook friend request you reject, or puking through tears in the sink of a bar you are kicked out of for life. 

I have a group of amazing single friends whom, if I were a dude, I would be spitting game at and buying drinks for them like it’s my grown man job. Yet we all end of belting “Just Haven’t Met You Yet” by Michael Buble and wishing we didn’t block that one kid so we could wake up to his Facebook as our homepages. Yes, I do judge you based on your prom date and if you wore a top hat posing in front of a white limo- dude, just put your arm around her waist and not draped on her shoulders. Sorry, that just drives me nuts, it’s like you’re about to pop a boner grinding on me all night to Usher so you can put your damn arm around my waist and stop acting like I have skin herpes.

ANYWAY, I got a little off topic- I guess it’s just impossible to explain chemistry and attraction, why we fall for the assholes we fall for. Or maybe she just gives real good head while you eat McDonald’s. Maybe college relationships aren’t real life, but it just seems like a lot of good girls are single and cry over assholes because the good ones are off which ho-ho-ho’s. 

PS the couple in this picture is amazing and perfect together and nothing like the couples I just described, I just like this picture because it pretty much sums up my personality. 

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. 

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. 

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.