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.

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.

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.

The feeling of owing just under 1,000 strangers an explanation of my actives lately is a weird one- like the time I was tipsy off $5 dollar glasses of wine at the Lego store in Chicago. Lots of changes over the summer, which I hate. New apartment, new job, new glasses prescription, no more Lean Cuisines.  I hate change. If I could wear the overall shorts I wore almost every day when I was six, I totally would- and I could, if I were comfortable looking like a socially awkward whore. Some things haven’t changed though: same boyfriend, still not saving any money, still getting told I look like Anne Hathaway- still not sure if that’s a compliment.
 
I must admit though, I have been a little daredevil as of late. Dappling on the experimental side.  For example, I have changed my steak order from well done to medium well. I have also gotten particularly good at spotting police cars during my fifty minute commute. Last year at this time I had three cats and a dog. Now I just have a different dog. That’s not supposed to be funny; it’s just something that happened.
 
Since I haven’t had the desire to do drunken embarrassing things lately it has given me a large chunk of time to reflect and consider what I want to do with my life. I have 17 drafts right now of blog posts that all started comical and such, but turned out like Romeo + Juliet; where it sounds like a really good idea in theory, but ends up getting sad in a super uncomfortable way where the only good part was that one Radiohead song.
 
This is the best way I can explain where those drafts went. Like this one time my babysitter told me should could make my little sister disappear, like really disappear, and never come back. Then she made some angsty, passive aggressive, teenager comment to my eight-year-old self about how everyone has to die someday. If I submitted you to reading those drafts I would be that babysitter and you would be adorable, innocent, self-dressed me dancing to Frank Sinatra in your living room, taking it way too seriously, and then you would hate magic shows for the rest of your life. I don’t want you to hate magic shows so I didn’t post them.
 
Once my life is in a happier place, also known as financial security, I will transition back to my old mindset. I used to complain about breaking a heel off my Target boots, hello they are Target boots what the hell do you expect, and how one word texts are the 21st century devil. Now I complain about gas prices going up five cents during the week, and how difficult it is to stay awake until 9:30 to watch Parks & Rec. I am, without a doubt, turning into my parents. The only thing barring me from a full transition to the fictional realm of adulthood is getting excited when I see deer along the road. The kind that is still alive. 

 Whatever, I still think newborn babies look like aliens so it’s comforting to know some microscopic speck of my mediocre existence hasn’t altered. That will probably change in my late twenties or early thirties, pending marital status. Just kidding I’m a young woman in 2012 in America; I don’t need a man to have a baby! I just need a man to buy me Chinese food, and set up my cable, and twist open really tight nail polish bottles that still don’t work after the rubber band trick- you know, the important stuff in life.

When my boyfriend texts me asking what he should get for lunch I’m all about it. It is exciting to me. It turns into twenty questions. I’m all like, “OoOh well what did you have yesterday? What are you in the mood for? What’s close to work? How much do you want to spend?” I like genuinely care what the fuck he is eating. That’s weird. If my friend was like “Whatshould I get for lunch?” I’d be like, “Eff off, I don’t care. Stop texting me, you’re annoying.”

HOW WEIRD IS THAT. 

The worst part is I suddenly assume all my friends love my boyfriend as much as I do. “Guys, he got a Wendy’s hamburger for lunch! How weird is that? They are square burgers! Square! He cuts the edges off so they are round and I’m all like babe, why don’t you just go to McDonald’s! Isn’t that so funny?” NO IT’S NOT FUNNY. Even I know it’s not funny. Yet I care. I spend a good hour a day thinking about what he should eat. Then, if he doesn’t pick my option, I’m offended. I get passive aggressive over a fast food establishment.

In relationships we trick ourselves into thinking we care about how often the other one takes a shit.

Which, if you’re a girl, is never. 

Unless I were to actually be on the MTV Reality TV show “Real World,” (HAPPY BRYAN”.,!?<!) in which case I have neither the tits nor the fondness for men in tank tops to be ready for that either. So I have been thinking about my future a lot, nautral right? Having just graduated and all, and not knowing where the hell I will be in August when both my lease and event coordinating internship end, is a constant source of drunk crying as of late. If I could just pull a sleeping beauty, get a boxed wine IV and PTFO until some hot dude in leggings wakes me up that would be great. Besides my great admiration for a good icing, there are a few choice reasons why I shouldn’t be allowed out of Ann Arbor.

1. I still feel weird bringing wine to my boyfriend’s parents. My mom’s answer? Wine and flowers. I ask my mom because boyfriends ALWAYS say “baby, you don’t have to bring anything, and it doesn’t matter what you wear either. You could wear sweats and they would love you.” I am calling bullshit. If I were a parent, you all better pray that day never comes, and my child brought home a significant other in sweats I would judge the shit out of them, and probably let them take the leftovers home to their cardboard box. Anyway, point is I feel super awk bein like hayyy p-unit here’s some booze, I have no idea what it tastes like because I have only ever had it out of a box. Luckily they had beer. 
2. I can only get my haircut when I go home. The same lady has cut my hair since I was four. I trust no one else with my gingery mane. On that note I still go to the same dentist and doctor as well. Oh, and the same mall. I take my malls seriously. I am not ready to find all that shit on my own. Knowing me I’ll see one of those commericals for a free consultation and be like bam, that’s my guy.
3. I think cash is free money. I use my debit card for everything, so when I get cash from people who feel bad for me, it’s like oh it was never in my account so I can spend it and there’s no proof I ever had it in the first place. Plus I don’t want to carry around cash in my bra, it’s bad enough I look like a stripper, I don’t want to feel like one too.
4. I blame my parents when I get lost. I came home for the weekend and hit traffic. My first thought was, why didn’t my mom call me and tell me it was down to two lanes? My first thought should have been, let’s listen to the AM station traffic updates. But then I remembered I don’t know any AM stations.
5. I seriously contemplate making a Shoe Dazzel account on a daily basis. Instead I just take the quizzes to see what catergory my style fits into, but I kid you not there is a good sixty seconds where I want to buy the shoes personally selected for me. Unfortunately studded black mary jane pumps do not go with my daily uniform of yoga pants and sweathshirts, sans bra.

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. 

1. When I have gotten out of the shower. Sometimes I wish I was a dude just so I could get that many mintues of my life back that I lose while showering as a female. Brb moving to France. Instead of taking a series of fifteen minute showers throughout the week, I like to take 45 minute ones a few (like once) a week. I have one of those as see on TV Turbie Twist hair towels with the little bit of elastic in the back. I tend to pull a Princess Diaries move and leave my pore strip on my nose to the point it feels like paper mache. Not to mention it seems that no matter how I scrub I will never get my mascara off in it’s entirety. It lingers there like my friends at the bar circa closing time who haven’t gotten laid in a while.
2. When I drive. At least that’s what I call it. It’s more like I am a Simpson’s Road Rage character transported to the real world who still belives she gets points for running things over. I blame my parents for depriving me of a Barbie Power Wheels Jeep as a child. Hell, they should make those for college kids. Can you imagine driving one of those to the bar? Might have to consistently wear underwear though. Anyway I swear a lot too. So there’s that.
3. When I play board games. You play by the rules or I will stuff a pillowcase full of bars of soap and beat the shit out of you (thank you, Step Brothers). None of your “oh, well this is how I play.” Did I ask how you play? Of course not, because I don’t give a flying fuck. Disney Monoply and the American Girl Game are not to be taken lightly. This isn’t beer pong with house rules and poorly designed college dorm room posters for “cool” freshman that advertise their drinking. We all do it. Get over yourself and don’t fuck with Felicity. Ginger American Girl doll is the shit.
4. When I am shopping. Picture the bloodbath Cornucopia scene of Hunger Games, only instead of camping shit in the middle there are poorly made Forever 21 dresses. Trying on jeans = traumatizing experience that takes years of therapy, crash diets, and mild alcohlism to overcome. Dare he even entertain the idea of playing the dangerous mind game of, “does this make me look fat?” To which the only respectable answer is, no your fat makes you look fat. Half the fun of shopping (jkay the only fun of shopping) is toting around a million bags that say, look at all the cool shit I got that will ruin my credit score before I can legally rent a car. Bitch, you can carry my purse. I mean, sweetheart.

The only people girls creep on more than the Harvard baseball team after their cover of “Call Me Maybe” are their exs’ current flames / flings / whatever. Of course we go through all the double polo popped collar pictures of your exs, but we can’t blame you for that, you hadn’t met us yet, the loves of your lives. That doesn’t mean we won’t pick an irrational drunk fight you cannot win about the whores you hooked up with before you made the obvious upgrade to us. Now don’t get your panties in a twist fellas over us calling your exs whores. I am sure there are some classy ladies in your past I would be besties with, regardless of their STD counts and low IQs. I will overlook them if you overlook my flirtation with a young leather pant wearing man in a hevy metal band featuring songs like, “Run Into the Night.” Let’s just call it even and blame it on tequila, or in my case, being male deprived for four years at an all girls high school. (Yes I still have my uniform, no I will not wear it for you.)

We care more about the girls after us because whoever you downgrade to says something about our relationship. In case you didn’t learn while we were dating, let me remind you, it is all about us. Even three years later. I’ll be honest, I know more about my ex’s current FBO GF’s (and everyone they hooked up with after me) than he probably does. My friends probably do too. Stalking is a not an individual event. We aren’t sitting alone in our rooms in your sweatpants drinking a glass of wine. We are sitting five to a sofa in the living room, my best friend is in your sweatpants because they are too comfy to burn throw away, and we have turned it into a drinking game.

If the new girl doens’t go out alot, that means we were too much fun for you, and you obvi have jealousy issues. If the new girl does go out alot, that means you thought I was the one, and now you need something less serious and it will probs last three months. See the logic at work? It’s a win win, for me.

Things to keep in mind when you’re stalking, it is impossible for a girl to see who has viewed her Facebook. So go crazy, I mean crazier, with that. If you’re a second degree stalker you’ll find her LinkedIn. But be warry my fellow crazies, she can see those recent views. And what good is memorizing her resume? It’s not like she has “giving crappy hand jobs in the back of vans” under her special skills, that’s just something we assume.