What is it about smoking that feels mysterious, or sexy, or chic? Or is that it? Do you smoke because of its image or do you smoke because it’s convenient? It gives you something to do with your hands at parties, I guess. But what else is there? Despite everything you know about smoking – emphysema, the fatality of lung cancer, the fact that it will give asthma to your kids if you keep this up – you’re still doing it. There has to be a reason.

Friends, I’m not trying to guilt-trip or shame you. Certainly, if you want to smoke – go ahead! It only hurts you (well, mostly — anyone in your direct vicinity is getting a good dose of secondhand, but hopefully, you make the conscientious choice to smoke away from others). I’m just trying to understand.

More than anything, smoking is disgusting. It smells bad. And let’s be real, you smell bad. I know you talk about how you always change your jacket from smoking outside to coming inside. I know you wear perfume, brush your teeth, wash your hair. But it’s still there. A constant scent underneath your body spray, your toothpaste. You stink, buddy. Plain and simple.

I think the worst thing is that it makes you look like you don’t care. It’s one thing to not care about what people think of you, or to not worry about intimidating other people. That’s confidence and it’s sexy. It’s different to look like you actually don’t care about yourself: your health and your future don’t matter as much to you as that cigarette. And friend, that is not sexy.

In the end, I want you to be in my future, friends. I want to get really old and cranky together. But the more I see you smoke, the more I realize you might not be there to play checkers in the park or feed pigeons together.

Friend, I hope someday you decide to quit. I’ll be there for you until that point, of course, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to contain my excitement when you make that decision.

Love always,

Michelle

Michelle is a food fanatic and fashion blogger trying to find her way in a post-graduate world. When she’s not frantically applying to grad schools, she’s shopping online and pretending to be getting work done. You can follow her @lockedoutblog! 

If you own jeans like this, burn them. Now.

Dear Mom Version of Me,

As you might remember, back in 2010 Nick Cannon knocked up Mariah “I love butterflies and my cleavage” Carey….with twins. As you’ve probably tried so hard to forget, the musical duo decided to commemorate the occasion with nude pictures. (Check out the full story here...if you dare.) Yeah, sorry for reminding you.

Barely unable to keep down my breakfast after hearing this, I decided that for the sake of my unborn children I should make a list of every awkward and embarrassing idea that might seem rational when I’m a (HOT!) mom, but in reality will scar my child for eternity.

Please read this and be advised. Also, for the love of god, please be married, successful and over 30. Thank you.

1. Elastic waist pants. I understand the allure of pants without zippers; I own leggings for goodness sake. Once you reach mom status, it’s time to embrace a flattering fit with structure, because Tina Fey was serious when she talked about Mom Jeans. They’re really, really bad.

2. Minivans. Please don’t ever, EVER purchase a minivan. Besides the fact that they’re impossible to see over for other drivers, and look like giant marshmallows barreling down the highway, I cannot accept the fact that I will ever need to herd a group of children around in 4-row monstrosity. Let’s keep motherhood real in something easier to park, thank you very much.

3. Refusing to change the radio station when friends are in the car. As weird as it will be for me to accept the label that my beloved Taylor Swift and Pitbull will eventually gain the status as “oldies,” you must force yourself to listen to whatever music your kids will be blasting 24/7.

4. One word: coupons. If you ever lecture my child about the benefits of coupons outweighing the tedious time wasted in cutting those suckers out, you need to be put away. The grocery store is bad enough without making your (gorgeous) children wait by the cart while you argue over a 50 cent coupon for something equally as embarrassing, like Gas-X.

5. Once your child hits the age of 5, it’s time to stop demanding the public hug-and-kiss combo, before dropping them off at school. Because when you’re twelve and it’s still happening with your Mom, it sure as hell won’t be happening with anyone else. Until college. Or graduate school, most likely.

6. No matter how much you want to see what those kids are up to these days (I was young once; I know what goes on down there!), you will not “friend” your kids on Facebook. That is if you haven’t already deleted your account to protect your privacy and maintain any hope of employment.

7. Lunchbox notes also won’t make the cut. Okay, maybe once a month because they are super fun and a nice surprise, but really, you don’t want your child to be a social outcast just so you can remind them to “shine like the stars” at school every day.

8. You will vow to follow the advice of Stacy and Clinton, and put your mini-skirts and halter tops away after you join the ranks of motherhood. Equally embarrassing, or more so, than a frumpy mom is a MILF. It’s hard enough to get the attention of your teenage crush; you don’t need to distract him with his hot mom fantasies.

9. Crazy names are fine for celebrity children. They’ve got that whole ‘being set for life’ thing that comes with having a multimillionaire parent; your children will not have that. (Which reminds me – you are NOT Celine Dion. Get over it already.) You will not name your child after a fruit, vegetable, ancient Roman conqueror or pick two random words from the dictionary (Subjucate Table) and think you’ve done a good job.

10. Never will you ever take nude photos. I’ve come to accept that I will never resemble Heidi Klum or Demi Moore, the only ladies who can ever pull that move off. I can barely keep the lights on when it’s time to get down to business, so why would you, my future self, ever want anyone to see you naked ass once you’ve gained baby weight? Any Disney star will tell you, pictures are permanent.

Now hang this up on the fridge with that Corona magnet you nabbed on SB11 (ah, the glory days) so you don’t forget.

See you in at least ten years. Actually, make it fifteen.

XOXO,
College Alyssa

P.S. Is Rebecca Black still popular?

Dear Mr. Thong Inventor,

I would like to preface this letter by saying that your work has made a large yet incredibly skimpy contribution to my adolescent years. And while I do believe in the nobleness of your cause, I am rather puzzled by the method to the madness of such an invention. As I hold up the tiny piece of fabric that is my underwear, several questions come to mind, such as:

Which came first: The thong, or “The Thong Song”?
The first time I heard The Thong Song, I was 11-years-old. Try explaining to a sixth grader, still under-clad with flower-print Hanes granny panties, the concept of a thong. Watching a leprechaun of a man do cartwheels on the beach doesn’t really do that good of a job of explaining the exact science behind the thong. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought he was singing about summertime footwear up until 2001, when I realized I needed to wear this contraption to be socially acceptable.

Where the devil did you get this genius idea?
Was it a public service project? Did you see one too many VPLs (Visible Panty Lines, for you not-in-the-knows) and proclaim “I’ve had it! I’m inventing buttless underwear!” To you, Mr. Thong Inventor, going commando just wasn’t an option. Now that point I can understand, as I probably have not washed my jeans since the opening night of “Sex and the City.” And who really likes walking around with that, “I’m wearing the pant equivalent of dirty underwear” feeling all day? Yeah, neither do I. So really, Mr. T.I, you were the answer to my laundry-lazy, VPL-phobic prayers.

How the hell did you get it to catch on?
No seriously. It takes pure skill to get a woman to try on a permanent wedgie, let alone make it a long lasting trend in the sexy lingerie industry. Think about it: it’s a tiny scrap of cotton, satin, silk, or pearls (hey, I dunno what kinda stuff you’re into…) that is designed to chill between your butt cheeks all day. But women still go crazy for them! They even tease other women that don’t wear their underwear up their ass.

I remember my friend Emilie was the first of our 8th grade “group” to wear a thong. She finally caved in after much ridicule from her older sister regarding a tragically obvious VPL in a tacky polyester skirt (honestly, can you blame the older sis?). The day of her thong debut, she literally screamed in agony every time she bent down to open her locker. Even after witnessing her shriek six times before the end of third period, I still thought “Man, I gotta get me one of those!”

Even now, as a “mature” college girl, I will not be caught dead touching a pair of grannies, let alone wearing them during a hook up. You didn’t just sell them to the women of the world, you fooled guys into thinking they were the sexiest form of underwear. Yeah, I get the whole “more is better” thing when it comes to women’s asses, but that still doesn’t really explain to me why butt floss is an attractive option. You must have had to have some pretty solid endorsements to sell this baby to the masses. In this case, I think this product would even be a toughie for the OxyClean man (and that’s saying something – that guy could get me to buy anything). Was Sisqo dancing around a few lubed up beach babes really all it took?

Please find time in your busy pants-dropping schedule to get back to me as soon as possible. Seriously, we need to talk. I have a great idea for an invisible lingerie line that could really use a boost…

Yours truly,
Miss Thong Investor

[This story was originally posted by Elizabeth - UC Berkeley]

Likey? Don’t worry, there are plenty more faves where this came from.

Sorry, people of the bar, for forgetting to put on undies....

Dear Friends/Family/That Random Taxi Driver That Picked Me Up and Took Me Home After Finding Me Face First On The Sidewalk,

Sometimes I like to drink. A lot. And on those occasions I may or may not (okay, always) do stupid things. It is not me, you see; it is the alcohol. In fact, it is not until the morning after when I am chugging Gatorade and trying to get my bed to stop spinning that I even realize exactly what went down. And I feel bad – really, I do. So, I want to take this opportunity to apologize for it all.

To The Bartender: I am sorry that I hopped over the bar and drank beer directly from the tap. And attempted to spray my friends with Tonic Water. And knocked over that giant stack of glasses….

To My Best Friend: I am sorry that I bit your hand when you tried to take my falafel away from me. Yes, I know I said we would share. I am also sorry that I stole your shoe…and drank a beer out of it. And that I peed in your garbage can. Oh, wait. That was your sock drawer? My bad.

To My Other Friends: I am sorry that I called your girlfriend “Gorilla”…to her face (but I am more sorry that you are dating such a mess). Sorry that I brought that random dude back to the apartment and accidentally took him to your room. I will wash your sheets…and rug. Oh, and your teddy bear.

To The Cab Driver: I am sorry that I didn’t open the window far enough when I was attempting to puke and, therefore, got a lot on the inside of the door. I am also sorry that I only had $2 and 36 cents in pennies to pay you. And I appreciate you letting me give you my Bed Bath and Beyond gift card to cover the rest.

To The Random Person at Dominos: I am sorry that I ate half of your cheesy bread before you came to pick it up. It just looked so lonely on the counter.

To The Dude I Work With: I am sorry that I made out with you at Happy Hour and made you think that I was interested and then laughed at you (and told everyone about it) when you asked if you could come home with me. That was really insensitive.

To My Grandma: I am sorry that my friends and I thought it would be funny to drunk dial you at 3 am to tell you that I just hooked up in a bathroom. I just hope you don’t know what that means.

To The Guy That Lives Below Me: I am sorry that I was in the mood to tap dance when I got home from the bar at 5am. I am also sorry for that loud thump at around 7am; my bed was rocking and I rolled right off.

To That Dude I Met: I am sorry that things didn’t work quite that well. It is really hard to aim/stay focused with 6 vodka/Red Bulls in my system. I am also sorry that I stole that pair of boxers; I couldn’t find my skivvies in the morning and needed something under my dress. P.S. Let me know if you find those…

To That Dude I Met’s Girlfriend: He didn’t tell me about you until the next morning. And that underwear you may find somewhere in his room are mine. Sorry ’bout those.

To My Liver: I am so, so, so sorry.

I hope that this covers everyone… past, present and future.

Anyone wanna hit up happy hour tonight? Let me know!

–Laur

[This post was originally posted by Lauren - University of Michigan.]

Hi sweetie. Long time no see. I take that back. I saw you last Friday. Same place, same hazy look in your eyes, different black dress that falls down to expose your bra. This one doesn’t have vomit on it… yet! Congratulations.

As much as going out and drinking in college is an integral part of your experience, I don’t think you serenading a fraternity with “Like a Virgin” into your half-empty Smirnoff handle (your makeshift microphone) while balancing on a coffee table is necessarily the right way to spend your Tuesday night.

You were very stylish at the beginning of the night. Your dress hung perfectly, eyelashes were curled, hair was straightened, heels were spotless and your jewelry matched. However, after those three, four or five shots of Patron? That sexy little dress you picked up at the Saks sale is riding up and showing off your embarrassing leopard print boy shorts. The mascara you so diligently applied is now running down your face after your tearful breakdown about how much you “love everyone sooooo much” and “like, can’t wait to have you all as my bridesmaids.” You seem to have more hair in your face than in your ponytail and one of your high heels is nowhere to be found. Check yourself, honey.

Is that pimply beast of a guy you’re making out with in front of everyone your boyfriend? Hope not, because you just made out with his best friend four minutes ago when you assaulted him against the beer pong table. Yes, beer pong winner is impressive, but it’s not like he just saved a child from a fire. Speaking of, can we talk about your beer pong game? It’s called beer pong for a reason. Not “mass amounts of vodka and a splash of cranberry” pong. When you’ve reached that point where hard liquor in the beer pong cups seems like a good idea, you’ve gone too far.

No, no one wants to split a supreme pizza with you, go to the strip club “just for fun,” drunk dial the Dean’s office or add a rule in any drinking game that involves getting naked. Drunk girl, it’s the middle of the week and don’t you have a final tomorrow? And stop yelling at the poor guy who made your drink – there is plenty of vodka in there and not his fault that you just can’t TASTE it anymore.

I love you, drunk girl. Because, sometimes, I am you. But even when I’m not, I still adore you because I have a great time making fun of you and drawing penises all over you when you pass out on the floor of some random living room amidst a Tila Tequila marathon.

XOXO,
Melanie

Melanie currently interning in NYC, taking full advantage of all margarita specials and those blonde summer boys. Stalk her on Twitter: @tinkermellie

Dear Library People,

SHUT UP. Holy crap. If you are talking on your cell phone, talking really loudly to your best friend, or just talking because you adore the sound of your own voice so much that you can’t seem to close your mouth, for the love of God, just stop.

I don’t care if you’re doing continual stage whispers. I don’t care if you’re on the first floor, where nobody does real studying. I don’t care if the library is the only place you ever run into your old roommate, so it’s the only possible place you can catch her up on all the gossip from last weekend. I’m sorry; you are out of luck. The library is not your social scene, and I will personally come and extract you from the building if you continue to obnoxiously make noise.

Yes, I get that you need a break from your studying. I understand that you have had a stressful week. I even grasp that maybe I should just chill out and stop taking my own work so seriously. But that’s just too bad. The library is my sanctuary, and until you opened your big mouth, I could count on being there in peace and quiet. So unless you want me to run at you with a huge needle and some surgical thread, take your conversations elsewhere! The weather is getting warm again, and it’s at most a 50-pace distance to the glorious outdoors, where you can talk to your heart’s content.

Thank you for understanding my frustration at your blatant disregard for anyone except yourself.

Sincerely,
Me

I’m not sure when we became best friends, but it appears you know quite a bit about me. I don’t remember telling you, come to think of it, but it looks like you got the word that I am newly single. I have deduced that you know this because you are running special ads for me, like: “single again?” and “Going through a break-up?”

How kind of you! I was hoping that you, anonymous Facebook ads, would help me fix my love life!

It’s nice that you take note that my tied down friends need no such help from you, but that because my status is “single” I am a candidate for your therapy! Do I need a second chance with my ex? I sure do, Facebook advertisement! At 20 years old I am a miserable spinster! I desperately need your advice on how to win my man back – the man that I got rid of on my own accord – so, please, tell me how! Never mind the fact that you just assumed I was the dumped; I will take your advice anyway. Really? I can just enter my e-mail and you will send me tips? I can watch helpful videos? What ever would I do without you!?

No, I definitely don’t find it creepy that you found this information by reading personal facts about me. You’re only trying to do what’s best for me and, honestly, I should send you a thank-you note! “Unlucky in love?” Gripping headline! Yes, I am so unlucky. All of us single gals are unlucky and cannot possibly be happy. Thank you for helping me recognize that, my darling Facebook ad companion. Thank goodness we have become bffl’s! Who needs real (or kinda real, but really just on FB so I can see their pictures) friends when I have you!?

And while we are on the subject of our blossoming friendship I just want to throw out an additional thank you for taking the time to read all of my interests! I think it’s great that you have read through all my activities, and favorite movies, books and music. It’s super sweet of you to tell me all the things I can buy based on what I love. Yes, I definitely would like to buy some novel writing software just because I like to write. Funny, I did not realize on my own that Ben Folds had a new CD a month ago! And you’re right; I do need a “Sex Panther” tee just because I like the movie Anchorman. You rock!

How can I begin to thank you for stalking my page and telling me what to do with my life? I will definitely buy all your product suggestions, and relationship advice. Quite frankly, you have made me whole again; my heart has been mended with your advertising glue.

Sincrely,

You know who (really, you totally do since you know everything)

I would like to preface this letter by saying that your work has made a large yet incredibly skimpy contribution to my adolescent years. And while I do believe in the nobleness of your cause, I am rather puzzled by the method to the madness of such an invention. As I hold up the tiny piece of fabric that is my underwear, several questions come to mind, such as:

• Which came first: The thong, or “The Thong Song”?

The first time I heard the thong song, I was 11-years-old. Try explaining to a sixth grader, still under-clad with flower-print Hanes grannie panties, the concept of a thong. Watching a leprechaun of a man do cartwheels on the beach doesn’t really do that good of a job of explaining the exact science behind the thong. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought he was singing about summertime footwear up until 2001, when I realized I needed to wear this contraption to be socially acceptable.

• Where the devil did you get this genius idea?

Was it a public service project? Did you see one too many VPLs (Visible Panty Lines, for you not-in-the-knows) and proclaim “I’ve had it! I’m inventing buttless underwear!” To you, Mr. Thong Inventor, going commando just wasn’t an option. Now that point I can understand, as I probably have not washed my jeans since the opening night of “Sex and the City.” And who really likes walking around with that “I’m wearing the pant equivalent of dirty underwear” feeling all day? Yeah, neither do I. So really, Mr. T.I, you were the answer to my laundry-lazy, VPL-phobic prayers.

• How the hell did you get it to catch on?

No seriously. It takes pure skill to get a woman to try on a permanent wedgie, let alone make it a long lasting trend in the sexy lingerie industry. Think about it: it’s a tiny scrap of cotton, satin, silk, or pearls (hey, I dunno what kinda stuff you’re into…) that is designed to chill between your butt cheeks all day. But women still go crazy for them! They even tease other women that don’t wear their underwear up their ass.

I remember my friend Emilie was the first of our 8th grade “group” to wear a thong. She finally caved in after much ridicule from her older sister regarding a tragically obvious VPL in a tacky polyester skirt (honestly, can you blame the older sis?). The day of her thong debut, she literally screamed in agony every time she bent down to open her locker. Even after witnessing her shriek six times before the end of third period, I still thought “Man, I gotta get me one of those!”

Even now, as a “mature” college girl, I will not be caught dead touching a pair of grannies, let alone wearing them during a hook up. You didn’t just sell them to the women of the world, you fooled guys into thinking they were the sexiest form of underwear. Yeah, I get the whole “more is better” thing when it comes to women’s asses, but that still doesn’t really explain to me why butt floss is an attractive option. You must have had to have some pretty solid endorsements to sell this baby to the masses. In this case, I think this product would even be a toughie for the OxyClean man (and that’s saying something – that guy can get me to buy anything). Was Sisqo dancing around a few lubed up beach babes really all it took?

Please find time in your busy pants-dropping schedule to get back to me as soon as possible. Seriously, we need to talk. I have a great idea for an invisible lingerie line that could really use a boost…

Yours truly,

Miss Thong Investor

[photo from www.environmentaltalk.com]

As it seems, I am currently suffering from a WICKED case of PMS. I have never really fallen victim to this monthly debacle, but in the last 24 hours I have felt overwhelmingly compelled to freak out on nearly everyone I have come into contact with, and, well, have.

For that, I’d like to make amends.

My dear, sweet boyfriend:

Sorry for freaking out on you after you felt compelled to repeat – verbatim – nearly the entire dialog from “Tropic Thunder.” I know you enjoyed the movie, and in a sick way enjoyed how irritated it made me for you to continue doing it, but that was no excuse to smack you on the arm with the blunt force of a car crash then scream at you like a fire-breathing dragon. It was mortifying to see you look so terrified of me.

Waitress at the Goose:

I understand how it can be working in food service; I have been there too, sister. With that in mind, I am sorry for being a total bitch after finding out we were merely 4 minutes late to order food last night. Sure, my eye rolling and walking out of the restaurant without a comment to you was rude, but, in my defense, I had just spent 2 hours watching “Tropic Thunder” and was famished. If I didn’t eat something soon, I was going to lose it and my poor boyfriend was going to be my target practice. I’m sorry for being so rude. In hindsight hanging around, having a few pitchers and enjoying the quick buzz may have been exactly what I needed.

My friends:

Sorry to totally bail out on drinks last night. After having found out “the kitchen closes at 11” I was pissed and starving, grabbed some T-Bell, and called it a night. Really, I was doing the city a favor; the odds of me freaking out on someone were pretty good (or a guarantee). That being said, at 1:45 a.m. when you all called to find out my whereabouts, I am sorry for reacting like the villain of a Disney movie. In the voice of The Dark Knight.

Fellow drivers:

I’ve really had no patience for any of you. Sorry for not letting people in for the sole reason of assuming you are a tool. Sorry for not stopping at stop signs, for using my horn way too much and flipping off that 16-year-old girl who was driving exactly the speed limit (good for you for being responsible).

City of Portland, lovely boyfriend, dear friends and family who I have been a giant bitch to, my bad. I’m sorry. In 24 hours I’ll be back to my sweet, loving self. In the meantime I’ll stay holed up in my apartment alone and spare the world my ferociousness.

He wants to do me.

He wants to do me not.

He wants to do me…

…Then never call again, do me, then tell all of his friends, do me, then flip out about my guy friends…the list goes on. If only the “He wants to do me” sentence could exist without the predictable post sex behavior, I would be living in a much more sexually satisfying world.

The problem with most guys who I have encountered is this: They really believe that if they have intercourse with a girl, she will flip out and suddenly be in love. Maybe all of the guys I know have simply given themselves too much credit because I’m always recycling the same kind of guy over and over again: Artsy and ARROGANT.

I suppose that, for me, there’s a degree of truth to this. But at the end of the day, I don’t want to be in love with anyone. Being in love is a shamefully painful experience to me, honestly. I’d rather be in the casual sex club…but the older I get..the harder it is to stay a member of that club.

I can’t just have sex with a stranger and never really talk to him again anymore. No. All of the guys I’ve met lately want something intense and meaningful AND CASUAL. How can I possibly not start to melt when you’re kissing me for the third consecutive hour? Or when you always want to go on romantic “dates”. It’s like the guys who I have crossed paths with need some sexual sense knocked into them, so here I am to do it gladly:

Dear pending/potential/past lovers,

You have two choices with me.

1. We can do the casual sex thing. But do you know what that means? It means…keep it casual. Don’t make me mix cds; don’t call me pet names. Don’t expect me to calm you down from your anxiety attacks and don’t send me tragically sweet text messages. Don’t act possessive or insecure. Don’t even MENTION our “connection” to me. Just keep it casual! When you throw in all of these other elements; you’re asking for trouble. If you want something casual with me…then don’t tell me I’m special. Because I don’t want to hear it.

OR

2. We can actually work on something real. Unlike most girls, “something real” does not necessarily involve titles or monogamy to me. But it does require honesty about your intentions and open communication. OUR sex can evolve into something much more passionate and intense than those in category 1. We can even be best friends. But if all you really want is sex, go ahead and spare us both the wasted hours of talking til dawn and sign yourself up for my first category.

You don’t have to be my soul mate to have sex with me. But you do need to be honest.

With that said; I’m taking applications, boys. (Triple check your spelling if you ever want to see my bed!)