Imma cut the witty joke I was gonna make about God making the girls’ ability to be passive aggressive on his day of rest, partially because I am kind of feeling this Smirnoff Ice, but mostly because that joke wasn’t going anywhere. 

If a dude is ever told he fights like a girl, that’s not an insult, it’s like being knighted by the queen of England. Haven’t women started all the World Wars? I know for certain the second one started because Josh Hartnett and Ben Affleck wanted to bang the same chick. Check your facts “Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader.” Why else would 99% of the villans in (good) Disney movies be women? Maleficent, the bitch in Snow White, Ursula, and I sure as hell know Jafar isn’t fooling anyone with all that eye liner. 

Let’s get one thing straight. I stopped giving boys the silent treatment in middle school, when they started snapping other girls bras. If I am not saying anything to you it’s not because you won, it’s because I am trying to think of ways for me murdering you to look like an accident. Like the other day, my boyfriend wanted to borrow some chap stick. But he did something to piss me off, lost count at this point. Did I tell him why I was upset? Hell no, that’s mistake numero uno. Instead I gave him a hot pink tube I said goes on clear. It doesn’t. Why would I do that? Because I wanted him to look like a fuck, because he wouldn’t go to a bar he hates with me and all my girlfriends. If I am anything I’m logical.

Example number two. My roomie, who is no longer friendly, was going to visit her manfriend in Chicago. Due to a lack of communication, probs cus they spend their Skype dates just smiling at each other, he didn’t know when to pick her up so he made plans. She tried to find somewhere to crash in the city for the night so he could get her the next day. So naturally the only option is a guy she banged, and even talked to *gasp*. Here is where she has him trapped, and for this I thoroughly applaud her genius; if he says fine stay there for a night, I trust you, then she can say why would you rather have me stay with him instead of you? OR if he says no, I want you to stay with me, she can play the ultimate passive agressive card, the why, do you not trust me? whammie. Boom, she got her way, he changed his plans to pick her up, and they enjoyed a lovely weekend high-fiving in a hot tub. 

The best part of all of this is while the “hes” of the world think we’re crying to our friends over Cosmo’s about how much of an asshole you are, we are all sitting around the living room reading your texts out loud deciding when to tell you we’re “fine.” Which, as you should know by the time you can read, never actually means “fine.” And yes, just to clear up any future questions about what we do after we read your texts and laugh at how much of a dumbass you can be, we do have naked pillow fights. 

The transition from single to Facebook official has not been a smooth one, for me atleast. Besides his blackout antics of forgetting language and tendency to proclaim “No I will not have anal with you” when we pass groups of strangers during an otherwise silent walk from his house to my own, that kid sure knows what he is doing to make a girl feel special. I mean what girl wouldn’t love a guy who calls her 48 times while she is at the bar with her friends? Ugh it’s just like Twilight. 

We have varying definitions of sexy underwear. When I say we I don’t mean me and him, I mean me and society. (Where I guess he falls, regardless of bizarre sound effects he makes for everything. Yes, everything.) I see nothing wrong with my “that’s what he said” boy shorts or my purple “where’s the party?” bikini briefs. If anything it’s a test like how amusement park’s have “must me this tall to ride” I have a “must be able to read this to ride” rule. Safety first. 

Another note on under dressings. I put a shit ton of time into matching, only for it to be peeled off and lost under a floor of dirty grey shirts he has had since 8th grade that I am fairly certain all used to be black. They have these creepy little holes in the shoulders like a pack of hungry hamsters went loose in his closet. I even matched the metallic silver text on the purple pair to my silver duct taped boobs (because it was this dress with a mesh strip down the middle). Note to twenty something men, throw out anything Hollister. Don’t even donate it. Please, for the love of my lady wood please. 

I also find myself getting super passive agressive over BS I know is BS, then buying Kate Spade bags with what remaining graduation money I have left as a coping mechanism. Anytime he even talks to another girl my inner crazy screams “SLUTSICLE” quickly followed by a whispered “am I cuter than her?” Girls know what I am talking about, that insecurity that only comes out in a good drunk cry over dollar slices of pizza. Like oh, you didn’t tell me you were going to the bar for a boys night? Well I am going to make the Sim I made of you fat. And just like that I win the crazy contest he doesn’t even know he was competing in. 

When a guy drops the L bomb a girl hears “RELEASE THE CRAZY”. Just last week my boyfriend told me he likes that I am a little crazy. So like a good girlfriend I saw awe babe you’re the best! while in my head I am peeing my pants laughing because he doesn’t even know crazy yet. Time to start pop quzzing him on all my favorite things, which, of course, change on an almost daily basis. 

On a uncharacteristically positive note, I get a lot of free pizza and chinese food out of it. He also has HBO, so that’s cool. 

• How long do I have to wear make-up around you? Save me the crap about liking a natural look, even that takes forever and whatever guy says that is probably lying. I am not saying you have to look like some Pintrest stripper eye make-up all my friends put under “my look” (weird, I have literally never seen you wear any of that), but a little mascara goes a long way. 
• The bathroom situation. Gotta take advantage of the ever empty stalls at Panera. Can’t ruin the illusion. (And this the point where my boyfriend stops reading)
• Thongs. If we make the extra effort to match under things, say something (nice). Girls ruin what little self-esteem they have remaining after cruising the Victoria’s Secret website seeking apparel to impress you. Feel free to throw out your padded bras though, killed that illusion. 
• How much I suck at taking off belts. Your jeans are barely covering your ass. At that point of saggieness the only good use I can see your belt being is a weapon, because if you’re going to get mugged you won’t be able to spread your legs far enough apart to run. 
• Shaving. I look down at my legs like, well this is going to take awhile. It takes forever. Then guys are all like, why don’t you shower more, it takes like five minutes. No, one leg takes about five minutes.
• Ex-Girlfriends. Yes, please pull out an origami heart out of your wallet over the lunch I purchased for us, I will definitely want to make out with you at the red light on our silent drive home afterward. 
• Free food. The single greatest positive quality about relationships, besides having someone to drunk text that (probably) won’t reject you. But all that steaks gotta go somewhere. Hello comfort weight, haven’t seen you in awhile. Right in time for bikini season.
• Sports? I love sports! No I don’t. My trinity of athleticism is cheerleading, baseball, and volleyball. 
• Hiding your crazy. Bottle that shit up until he drops the L-word. Aka delete your web history so he can’t see you went through all the profile pictures of every female who has written on his wall to see if he has liked any of them. 

Girls have three jobs when it comes to the opposite sex: being crazy, the “I am slowly reaching for my wallet but you better pay” for thisdate drink, and being clingy. Guys have one, to contradict themselves in literally everything they say. But there is nothing worse than a little Freaky Friday role reversal. 

Now I am just writing this to kill time before my family goes to bed and I can pour myself a glass of white wine and play Just Dance 3 for Wii until I burn off the Thin Mint girl scout cookies I found in the back of the freezer / a couple of gal pals are experiencing the not-as-rare-as-you-think clingy hook up male type.

Do you know a guy like this? Theres a mutual attraction, you hang out a couple times, start texting while the sun is still out, you drunkenly sleepover one night and the next morning after he drives you home you get a “we need to talk” text. Aka he thinks you want to date, be exclusive, hop on the fast track for Facebook official. NEWSFLASH COLLEGE MEN, most girls don’t want to be exclusive and chances are she’s texting a couple of guys at once. Key word there being TEXTING not fucking, so calm down. When she starts acting “coupley” that usually just means she’s comfortable being sober around you and doesn’t need to chug her roomate’s Sminoff Ice before she comes over. 

Guys pull this whole “I am not looking for a relationship, but I have fun hanging out with you” card. So girls take this card, let go of the dream Friday night photobooth photoshoot with you, and continue to accept free diet cokes and whatever / boner back massages on the dance floor. That works out fine for a month or so, a semester if you are lucky.

Sooner or later one of you is going to find out the other hooked up with someone. The girl response is ask all her friends if she’s cuter than the other chick, get really drunk, lose some shit, and continue to hook up with you. She will ignore her friends calling you (the dude) “such an asshole” who is “using you” because after all, you were friends first, she knows you. She will put up with you because, well, someone is better than no one and there are only so many nights you can order chinese and watch The Notebook by yourself.

The guy response is to flip a shit. Chances are he will call the girl a whore / ask her to get tested / refer to her going out clothes as a “costume”. Maybe he will even tell his mom everything you have said to him. He will text some non-specific insults like, I thought I knew you / you’re not the girl I thought you were / I was beginning to change my mind about relationships / I can’t believe I trusted you.  Because if you’re upset, if his knocks at your self-esteem worked, then you won’t go out and guys don’t like competition.

Remember what he fails to. He was the one that didn’t want a relationship, he is the one that ended things before you even thought about it (okay that’s a lie, because I have planned my life with literally every man over the age of eighteen I pass on the street). I don’t think guys understand that “we’re note exclusive” means girls can “see” multiple guys.

If you’re not together, he has no right to flip a shit. But it’s a two way street; girls, you can’t flip a shit either- guys that don’t want relationships don’t change their minds, so stop asking him to come over and watch a movie before you get too attached. 

The only upside to this drama is your girlfriends will feel bad for you and buy you Red Bull Vodkas, and defending yourself against the novel length texts from him tends to kill one’s appetite. What I really want to know is where were those grammatically correct messages two months ago when I was just getting “k” ?

• 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. 

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. 

Ending a using each other buddyship is rough. It’s messy. It’s sad. Not because you’re going to miss this person’s company, but because it means getting used to being naked in front of someone else. 

People don’t date in college lead alone have monogamous hook up circles. College is one giant breeding ground for the young and horny. Or if you’re like me you’ve been so single for so long that you really don’t mind the only ball between your legs being that of a stray beer pong ball from a table adjacent to the dark corner of a frat basement you are sitting in alone, armed with your blackberry and a handle. Sobbing. If you’re not sobbing then you’re trying to look deep and thoughtful so some strapping young man spots you from across the sea of dry humping youth, pulls your chin up to lock eyes with him, and asks in a deep southern drawl “Why so sad beautiful? I saw you from across the room when I was talking to a boring blonde with big boobs who I had absolutely no interest in and had to talk to you. What’s on your mind? I want to know you.” In reality your deep and thoughtful face makes you look drunker / constipated / a vegetable, and the only person to venture into your corner is some drunk groping pair who don’t even see you and accidently sit on your lap all Princess Diaries style. But you don’t actually get up quite yet, you awkwardly linger there so pathetically jealous of the chick with some dude tongue down her throat. As you get up to sit in a different locale you mumble something like, get a room, but they are too busy going at each other to notice. 

But lets get back to the essence of this post. Men, have some ounce of chivalry and let her end it. Afterall, she let you poke around in God knows where for God knows how long, or how much of it she remembers for that matter, it’s really the least you could do. 

See, I have this friend who was recently told that she wasn’t what he thought she would be, that he thought something was there but it wasn’t. News flash buddy, you dick wasn’t what I thought it would be, something I thought was there too- so it looks like we both leave empty handed. You more than me because lets face it, size matters. But guys YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY THAT. The right thing to do is one word answer her text messages and make an asshole comment about her friend being hot. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. Then she begins to hate you so ending the fling seems like her idea! Then boom presto cleano you’re safe from the barrel of crazy that would have been released on your ass in the form of drunk texts from her friends and Taylor Swift lyric Facebook statuses. hearts hearts hearts. Detag detag detag.

It sucks when a guy you’re hooking up with was never your type in the first place. When you go from texting all day to stalking his Facebook. Then, before you know it, its 2 AM you’re creeping on some random girls page that you’re sure he’s into since he liked one of her pictures, who turns out to be related to him, sweating profusely from this digital man hunt wondering how did I get to this point when I NEVER LIKED YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE. The rejection hurts, thats what it comes to. Thats all it comes to. We may try to rationalize it, put it in perspective, dramatize it over a bottle(s) of wine so it seems like some huge thing, but he was never that into you and more importantly you were never that into him. You just liked the attention. Just IM Smarter Child, that robot can say anything a man can, and replies 10x faster. Can your slam piece define munificence? Didn’t think so.

PS
I can’t define it either, I just googled “really hard words to define.”

As far as I know, the only thing having some bullshit / make believe/ fairy tale list of required quailites desired in a life partner only got a girl the guaratee that she will indeed be dying alone, and not in a nursing home retirement community alongside her biffle like the brainwashing Notebook portrays. SHE DOESN’T REMEMBER YOU, go remarry and have some other chick be a bird with you. I hope you fly into a window.

If they say you can’t help who you fall in love with then whats the point of day dreaming? Sure, you may have spent your awkward brace face teen years dreaming some young blue-eyed, deep voiced, Alec Baldwin look-a-like would save you from getting hit by a runaway dumpster as your Wet Seal shoe heel gets stuck in a man hole, all Wedding Planner style and shit (just to make something up off the top of my head… I never wanted that or anything…)- but that doesn’t happen in real life. It only happens in straight to DVD romantic comedies staring some singer trying to become a serious actress who wants to work on her next “project” opposite Brad Pitt. That dream, like most of my romantic movie fuled fantasies, usually seem like a good idea at first- like the time my guy friend sprayed a Superman S on his chest in bug spray to light it on fire- only to blow up in your face, my friend facing a similiar fate. The only difference between the two scenarios being, in failed romances you can’t jump in a pool and the only lingering disappointment with lighting your chest on fire is the smell of burnt chest hair.

Lets face it, if your soul-mate happens to be a toothless double wide owning carney that is so tan you often question his ethnicity, then such is your fate. There just aren’t enough doctors / lawyers / slightly alcoholic Irish firefighters with Boston accents who love their moms and have Red Sox season tickets, out there for all of us to get a piece. You just gotta be happy with the man cards you have been delt.

Now I am hoping my soul mate, some poorly fated man in a far off distant land unaware of his inevitable doom, doesn’t have standards / for his and my future kids sake maybe faces a pre-mature death. Or if he does that “nice tits” / lady-like / can dance, are not on his list. I actually feel kind of bad because I will not meet this love-of-my-life on my own. Chances are it will be some sort of blind set up where my guy friend will be unable to describe me, since I don’t fall into the hot or has a really nice personality categories- the only two brackets of women guys can tell the difference between, we all know what the latter means. SHE HAS A GREAT SMILE.

Women of the world, I call you to give up on Prince Charming and learn to settle. But don’t worry, for there is something greater than all of us combined to help console us in this time of ill fated discovery (a mere years before our sexual peak / the grand slowing of our metabolism). No, it is not a vibrator, nor it is the steamy reads in the back of Cosmo I like to act out / make voices to- it is Daddy Booze, Almighty Alcohol, tah-dah. Or as I shall now affectionately refer to it as, my settling medication. Take one to sixteen shots a day, as directed. By me. Your ginger voice of reason.

PS

If my slightly alcoholic Irish firefighter is out there, give me a few years before you save me from a man hole grate. Actually, if I ever meet a firefighter- I like a man in uniform, give me a break here Mr. Judgey eyes- I bet it will be because my cat is stuck in a tree and I am too hammered to get him out, and then too hammered to retrieve the cat. THAT WAS A SEX JOKE PEOPLE. I am getting really good at making poor life choices that if I commit them during our time together could result in public stoning / me taking all your money and using it for evil. Which I can I say, because I’m a death eater at heart.