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It's the moment of truth, little lady.

We’re well into another new school year and to honor that, we at CollegeCandy are bringing back the fan-favorite series, “We’ve All Been There.”  (We tried to get another national holiday/long weekend for you guys but it’s way harder than we thought so this will have to do.) Every week, Lauren from the University of Michigan will comment on the common experiences all college women share – like class registration, the dreaded muffin top or, everyone’s favorite activity, procrastinating. Read, relate, cringe and enjoy.

Your boxes are unpacked, your bed is made, and your parents have left the building. You are officially a college student.

Woohoo! No more living under their rules. You are a free adult livin’ the dorm life. It takes a few days of getting used to, but you’re finally feeling settled. You’ve even sorta mastered the cafeteria slop. This whole college thing isn’t so hard after all.

That is, until you need to do a little #2 in the public bathroom down the hall. The one every other girl on the hall also frequents to shower, wash up, dry her hair, and do her business. Girls you don’t know. Girls you want to befriend. Feeling the stage fright, you’ve been unable to go for days and, between the cafeteria salad bar (roughage!) and the frat party jungle juice, it’s been rather difficult.

But now it’s time and you have no choice but to suck it up, drop the pants, and take care of business.

The feeling hits you fast. You drop everything you are doing (read: log off of Facebook) and do a little walk/run to the bathroom. You fumble with your keys as you unlock the door, then quickly pull it closed it behind you. You listen for anyone in the shower. You can hear some water running, so you scurry into a stall before anyone can see your face. After safely securing your door, you crouch down to see if any of the other stalls are in use. Thankfully, you are alone.

You turn to the toilet and notice some splash on the seat. You bend down and get in close to determine if it is some inconsiderate squatter’s pee, or maybe a little splash back from the toilet. Regardless of what it is, you are going to have to wipe it up before you let your precious cheeks hit the seat.

You grab a giant handful of toilet paper and wad it up, creating a thick barrier between your hand and the toilet seat. Then, gagging and turning your face away from the situation, you quickly wipe the seat, toss the paper in the toilet and flush it with your foot.

Phew. Now you’re ready.

You sit down and mentally prepare for your first public poop when you hear the door open and a few girls walk in.

“OhMyGod,” you think to yourself. “I can’t go with these girls in here! What if I make loud noises? What if I make the bathroom smell? They may see me or recognize my leopard print slippers! It’s social suicide.” You contemplate sitting silently until they leave, but it seems they are doing the same thing. Besides, after 10 days of zero bowel activity, holding out is really not an option. So you go with plan B: distraction.

You begin coughing, tapping your foot, and rolling and unrolling the toilet paper – anything to cover the sounds of what is happening in stall #3. Though it’s not the ideal sitch (and it’s nearly impossible to do your business and cough at the same time), you do manage to complete your task in a timely fashion without any embarrassing sounds or smells (well, really offensive ones, anyway), and even sneak out of the bathroom before anyone in the neighboring stalls can see your face. Or the sweat marks under your arms.

Yesssss, success!

– Yeah, we’ve all been there and it’s awkward. But if there’s anything we learned it’s that Everybody Poops, so don’t be afraid. By the end of the semester, you’ll be taking magazines, books and even your laptop in there with you and chatting with the girl next door. You may even wonder how you ever did it alone.

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Okay: Putting something gross in your ex’s car.  Like an onion.  Or a dead hermit crab.
Not okay: Having that “gross thing” be poop.  Yours or anyone else’s.

Okay: Planting pictures of the two of you where you know his new girlfriend will see.
Not okay: Going to his apartment wearing only a trench coat “because he ordered that striptease” while his new girlfriend is over.

Okay: Giving out your ex’s number to all the creepy guys you meet at the bar.
Not okay: Posting his number on the Craigslist Casual Encounters board.

Okay: Telling your ex you’re pregnant.
Not okay: Telling your ex’s parents you’re pregnant.

Okay: Subscribing his email address to a hundred different annoying and graphic PETA newsletters.
Not okay: Telling PETA he’s operating a bunny-skinning factory in his basement.

Okay: Changing your ex’s Facebook password so he can’t log on.
Not okay: Changing his password and also screwing up his profile.  Having him as “Interested in Men” would be an insult to the gay community.

Okay: Anonymous mass email to his friends with scandalous photos of your ex attached.
Not okay: Anonymous mass email to the entire student body with scandalous photos of your ex attached.

Dear Tuffy Luv,

My college program keeps me and my friends in school full time in the summer. I was totally excited to be back at school after our winter internships and see all my friends. Everything was going totally swell. The weather was great and we had one midterm left to go so we started planning a beach trip/camping trip. I didn’t have the same lunch break as my friends so I left some of the detail planning up to them. Anyway, it was a couple a days before we were planning on going camping and I’m hanging out with my best friend. She is literally my only girl friend at college (male dominated programs are tricky that way) and a really important to me. I saw a list of camping supplies on her dresser and asked what was up with the planning and how much money I owed for supplies. And then her exact words are “You’re not going.” I got bumped from the trip because there wasn’t enough room in the car.

I wouldn’t have normally been that upset or mad but one of the people going was her friend that didn’t live in our dorm and never hung out with the group of us that did. She only hung out with my friend who kicked me off the trip. The guys going were a really great bunch but one of them was also the guy that my friend was hooking up with and then later she found out he was seeing some other girl in the winter when he moved away for his internship.

Is it just me or did I totally just get replaced? We haven’t been speaking but I told her I was really pissed off about getting ditched and that we hadn’t tried to get another car or something. She really doesn’t think it was a big deal at all and thinks I’m being dumb for being pissed. I really don’t think I have anything to apologize for but clearly she thinks so since she hasn’t made any effort to talk to me after I told her I was mad. I really don’t want to “cave” and apologize for getting mad but she’s not making any effort to talk to me!

What do I do???

-Ditched.

Dear Ditched,

Um. You should TOTALLY be mad.

I mean, it would be one thing if they didn’t have room and decided you couldn’t go (which is still messed up) and then TOLD you, but you had to find out by way of offering to pay for supplies?! What the floop!!!

But let’s back up here. Aunt Tuffy’s got some shoop to SAY.

Okay, first of all, you should be upset, but not just at this one girlfriend. Women have a tendency to blame each other when men are also at fault. How is this not also all your guy friends’ faults too? They helped vote you off the island! Girls need to band together and learn to take guys to task for their part in things instead of just blaming the guys as stupid bystanders. It’s insulting to women, and it’s insulting to men.

Sociopolitical tirade said, you have two choices. One, let this go and truly forgive and forget. Or two, tell this shoopmongers how you feel.

Tuffy sez go with choice two.

See, you’re not GOING to forgive and forget. You may drop it and not mention it again, but Tuffy guarantees you won’t be able to stop resenting them for it. And this is because of the simple fact that they were schmucks. You were involved in the original idea of a camping trip, and then, not only did they get together and decide to drop you, they then didn’t even TELL you! You found out DAYS BEFORE YOU WERE GOING TO LEAVE because you happened to see a piece of paper on your friend’s dresser. This is totally flooped up.

Instead, I suggest you talk to each one of them individually. Invite them, one by one, to coffee, and explain, calmly, that your feelings were really hurt and that no one told you that you weren’t going to be getting to go. Do NOT get emotional. Just explain that you wish someone had told you when it was first decided, or that, better yet, if they had explained the situation to you so you could have helped come up with a solution.

The friends who apologize genuinely and/or give you an honest response get to stay in your life. The ones like this “best friend” of yours who tell you it’s no big deal don’t.

You don’t need these kind of untrustworthy people in your life. Don’t make a scene–after your talks and when you’ve determined who deserves to stay in your circle of trust, quietly blow out the campfire and fade into the distance. The jerks you leave behind deserve each other.

Also, I hope they step in poo.

Hearts & Skulls,
Tuffy Luv

As soon as I got to college, I started dating a guy who was a junior. Martin* wasn’t my typical type (basically, he was a lot less attractive, motivated, and thoughtful than what I’m used to) but I decided to give him a shot anyway. I was the typical nervous freshman and I think I subconsciously felt like he had knowledge that could make my transition into college a little easier.

Plus, who doesn’t want to date an older man?

We dated for almost a year, but things started falling apart when we went home for the summer. We fought all the time over the tiniest things, and the fact that my parents and friends absolutely hated him didn’t help. But I couldn’t stay away! When we got back to school, we would meet secretly; I couldn’t let anyone know that we were still seeing each other (and seeing a lot of each other, if you know what I mean) because they would have all been really pissed off. And I just didn’t care to deal with that.

One night, I sneaked Martin into my room and we got down to business. The next morning we woke up early and  I shoved him out the back door; I didn’t want anyone to see him! I went back to my room and started making the bed.  As I pulled back the covers I noticed some brown marks on my sheets. I love chocolate so I thought maybe I had somehow smeared some in my bed during a late night Reese’s binge.

Not really thinking, I bent over and sniffed the stains.
…and almost hurled.

That was not chocolate. Not at all.
Somehow, there were skid marks in my bed. Being an obsessively hygienic person, I knew Martin had to be the culprit. I mean, I know how to wipe my own ass; there’s no way that sh*t (literally) was mine.

I debated what to do. Do I call him and yell? Do I clean up the mess and let him maintain his dignity? Do I write an article about it on a national website and hope other people find it funny? Do I buy him baby wipes for the next major holiday? I just didn’t know. Yes, it was totally his fault, but how do you even go about accusing someone of leaving skid marks on your sheets?!

Thoroughly disgusted, I ended up calling him.

“Hey, baby,” he said as he picked up the phone.
“Did you poop before you came over last night?”
“Wha?”

I asked him again. He denied it and kept denying it until I told him what I had found…and inhaled. Finally, he fessed up, then quickly came over to wash my sheets. He probably thought that would get him out of the dog house (…or outhouse) but it was too late. The fights were one thing, but the runs were just inexcusable. After he folded my sheets I kicked him to the curb.

I always thought that with him being older, he had things he could teach me. Turns out, I was the one who could teach a few things. Mostly, how to wipe your own ass.

When I was a sophomore I lived in a quad in my sorority house. That meant 4 girls, 45 pairs of jeans and over 100 pairs of shoes stuffed into a very tiny space. With bunk beds. The close quarters were an issue when any sort of studying had to get done (“Can’t you wait until after 90210 is over to start that paper?!”) or heavy drinking was going down (“Dude, there is not enough room in here for you to do the worm…”) but we made it work most of the time.

And then we had a date party.

For those of you who don’t know, a sorority date party consists of asking guys to join you at a bar where everyone gets very, very drunk. Kind of like any other night of the week but with dresses and a photographer.

Anyways, needless to say, my roommates and I got quite intoxicated. Upon returning to the sorority house, everyone proceeded to leave their men outside and completely pass out fully clothed. I was pretty much dead to the world when I suddenly woke up out of my sleep; something smelled really bad. It took me awhile to figure out where I was, why I was still wearing heels, and why there was a slice of pizza in my hand, but when I finally came to I realized that my roommate (whose bottom bunk was a mere 4 inches away from mine) was also sniffing the air with a not-so-happy look on her face.

“Dude, what is that smell?” she asked me, sniffing the air like a puppy in heat. I began looking around the room, trying to figure out what was going on. Considering the small size of my living quarters, it took only a second to find the culprit: at 5:30 in the morning, wearing a beautiful black BCBG dress, my roommate was squatting over the bottom drawer (MY DRAWER!) of the dresser…having a bowel movement.

“SUSIE*!!” I screamed. She looked up at me. “What the hell are you doing in my underwear drawer!?”

“What?” She responded, confused. “Why are you in the bathroom stall with me?”

“You are not in the bathroom, you moron, you are in our bedroom…taking a crap in my underwear drawer!” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up all over myself. A moment later, I was ready to do all three.

Susie finally looked around and realized what she was doing.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it.” Susie stood up, pulled up her underwear, fixed her hair in the mirror and started to clean up her mess. It was a noble thing to do (and that girl better clean up that sh*t), but Susie was still quite drunk and a little wobbly on her feet. She bent down, gathered whatever was in the drawer and walked towards the communal bathroom in the hall…..leaving a trail of poo poo along the wall as she went. It was like Hansel and Gretel’s trail. Only grosser.

I couldn’t help but scream. And kick. And cry. And throw up a little in my mouth.

Soon the entire sorority was awake and screaming along with me. Eventually our house mother showed up, shooed us all out to a neighboring house to get some sleep and closed down our house for some major Clorox action. Upon returning, my room became a lovely, spacious triple and Susie got a single.

Was it fair that she got a single to herself? No, but no one wanted to live with the pooper.

It was a couple days after Christmas and my sister and I were at my parents’ cherished retirement pad in Florida. I was hungover and menstruating, so basically my mouth and vagina tasted like cat piss and pennies. We decided mimosas were in order… until I had a sip, remembered single handedly slamming a bottle of bubbly the night before and replaced the champagne with vodka. My mother came home two hours later, and was not happy that A. I had broken into her emergency alcohol supply (this actually exists) and B. that we had decided to get drunk before noon rather than returning/exchanging Christmas presents for her like we said we would three days in a row now.

The two man party kept going until 7 p.m., eight hours later, and somehow we convinced our dad to drive us to a local bar to watch a highly anticipated NFL game. In exchange, we would let him have our McFlurries that were in the freezer. (Also, true.)

The first thing I did when I walked into the bar was buy a waitress’ entire tray of Jell-O shots. The following things also happened at the bar that night: My sister, 21, made out with a 60 year old bartender for a free bag of Jay’s potato chips, I face planted in front of a young family having dinner and the mother says to her daughter “do not talk to that woman”, and as my father pulls in to pick us up I have my pants around my ankles (definitely on the rag), pissing in the parking lot terrace and using the hands of two old geezers to balance myself. (Apparently I had called my dad to tell him he couldn’t eat my McFlurry afterall and spoke like “someone had stapled my tongue to my chin” therefore, he felt compelled to come get us. A**hole.). Meanwhile, my sister is sitting Indian style in a handicap parking spot across from a child who couldn’t be older than twelve, ripping menthol cigarettes and telling him about the Christmas presents she got.

My father got out of the car, collected his two homeless slut daughters, and took us home. Apparently I tried to make my own McFlurry when we get home and left two cartons of ice cream out overnight on my mother’s antique wooden table. I also must have opened a bag of chocolate chips and ran around the house doing the helicopter because they were EVERYWHERE, including in my seventeen year old dog’s food bowl, the next morning. Oops.

Anyway, I woke up around 1 p.m. the next day feeling not good (I literally think childbirth will feel like a fart after this hangover) and walked out into the living room area blissfully unaware of the storm that was awaiting me. I said good morning to my mother whose response came in the form of stopping in her tracks, pivoting in slow motion, and staring at me with a mix of utter disgust and genuine pity for a solid ten seconds. No words. My sister motioned me over to the couch with saucer eyes and whispered, “you went to the bathroom on mom’s oriental rug last night,”  as she choked, basically gagging, on stifled laughter. My jaw dropped and out of the corner of my eye, I see that the rug is indeed rolled up and standing against the porch door.

In the next few minutes, with jaw still dropped, I vacillate between feeling utterly horrified and thinking this is the funniest thing I have ever done. (Really mature.) However, there was a serious miscommunication between my sister and me, because while she was trying to tell me that I pissed on the carpet, I, for some sick reason, was under the impression I went #2. So, without further ado, I decided that my best approach is to pretend that I remembered what I did, that I was mortified and sickeningly remorseful. So I went up to my mother who was at the stove making lunch, tapped her on the shoulder and actually uttered this sentence:

“I am so sorry I pooped on your rug last night.”

She tossed the spatula onto the counter and started running around the house inspecting the rest of the rugs screaming, “where is the sh*t? WHERE IS YOUR SH*T? Jesus Christ, you’re like some kind of animal!” At this point I realized I had not in fact taken a dump on the floor. That was simulataneously the best and worst realization of that year.

“No mom, I didn’t. I thought that’s what happened but I guess I just peed.”

“Just peed, Suzy Just PEED? I walked out here in the middle of the night, and you are buck naked, barely standing, peeing all over my grandmother’s rug.” At this point she proceeded to show me what I looked like; my mother, a little waif in a taffeta pant suit, waddling back and forth, bending slightly backwards, with her hands bent up at her chin and her tongue hanging out like a drunk, dying stegoceras. “You were so incapable of standing up that you looked like a jumbo shrimp urinating all over my house.” At this point my sister is behind my mother literally suffocating herself with a pillow trying not to lose it. If it didn’t hurt so bad to laugh, I would have cracked. I am sure of it. But my heartbeat was in my eyes, my brain in my ass, and my vital organs barely keeping afloat somewhere in between. “And you just stared at me, Suzy, like a goddam freak. And your f’ing tampon string was dangling between your legs, like you were some kind of wind-up doll. What would you have done if your father had walked out and you’re standing there with no clothes on and a wet rope hanging from your vagina?” (Um, probably physically fought him for the rest of the ice cream, I’m thinking.) “It was disgusting, Suzy. You just stood there, laughing, pissing all over like it was your job. Like it was your goddam destiny. I HAD TO WIPE YOU, SUZY. I HAD TO WIPE MY GODDAMN TWENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER.”

And with that comment, my sister lost it and the only thing that I could muster was “at least I didn’t poop.” Disgusted, my mother stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door. It was only after the smell of burning garlic took over the house that my sister and I realized we needed to stop cackling in order to prevent the house from burning down. The odor must have hit my mother at the same exact time, because she came out, saw my sister and I frantically tossing water all over the kitchen, and started laughing – hard. We made amends, and decided it was almost 2 p.m. and therefore time to hit the bottle. We were on vacation, after all, and in some twisted way, celebrating the fact that I hadn’t scattered my feces all over the house seemed right.

I’d like to meet the people in this neighborhood who require this friendly reminder.

Every week, CC and John bring you some of the weirdest, funniest, saddest things he hears on his college campus. Join the Overheard revolution!Leave your own overheard convos in the comments or send ‘em over!

(Guys, walking through a grove on-campus.)

Guy: Nice day… birds, blue skies, not a cloud in sight. Yup. This rock looks pretty good to take a crap on.

(Older student, talking to high schooler on campus tour.)

Student: There’s actually a statistic, I think, something like 30 percent of the liquid of water parks is urine.

High schooler: Yeah, that sounds pretty reasonable. That’s about right.

Student: What the f***? No it’s not! That would be disgusting!

(Guy, preparing Mexican food.)

Guy: I love cilantro. It makes everything taste like it’s just been rinsed in a mountain waterfall.

(Old lady, talking to students at the thrift store.)

Lady: That foot locker can be used as both storage and a coffee table!

Student: I’m sorry, but it’s hideous. We’re not buying it.

(Crowd of girls, playing Jeopardy.)

Girl: Wait. Chinese god of war… who was also a god of literature. That must be Gandhi, right?

Girl 2: Yeah, I think so.

(A guy, losing it on the phone.)

Guy: No, no. That’s too late. I need to get tested now.

(Guy, alone on a computer.)

Guy: Hey! You can’t say “boobs” on the Internet!

(Two guys, talking in the Student Union.)

Guy 1: So how was the camping trip?

Guy 2: It was fine. The deer stole all our graham crackers.

Guy 1: The cutest little larcenists!

(Girl, furious.)

Girl: Damnit! I have to Tide-to-Go my boob.

(Middle-aged man on the phone.)

Man: Fir trees are the only type of tree known to give live birth.

(Father and children, talking to a park ranger)

Father: It was like, you know, poop – kinda mushy, but with some green bits in it. Berries, maybe seeds.  Do you think it could have been bear poop?

Child: Dad, please, just show the ranger our permit.