Not all are created equal.
It's finals week and snowing here in the Midwest; what a lovely combination. I can’t think of a better way to take a study break than to snuggle up by the fireplace with a few pledge sisters and talk about our upcoming winter formal… the reason why I return to school second semester every year… the highlight of January!
Admit it - even if you are in a sorority, you’ve wondered if Greek TV shows are anything like real Greek life. But first off, it goes without saying that whether you are Greek or not, if you have never seen an episode of “GREEK” then you haven’t lived.
Your cell phone alarm is going off in your ear to the tune off She Bangs by Ricky Martin, inducing the hangover you worked so hard for last night (note to self: change to something MJ immediately). Your body pillow is the most obliging (and loyal) bed partner you’ve had in months, and the monsoon outside is actually starting to lull you back to sleep.
I saw him at my first sorority mixer. He was the social chair of his fraternity and from the moment he checked my name on the guest list, I was in love. He looked dreamy in his designer jeans and flip flops, his hair perfectly floppy. And he knew my name. Well, at least for that moment.
Giving up my nights out was not something I was especially prepared to do when I started scouring my college town for a job; who wants to be folding clothes amidst an asthma-inducing Abercrombie cologne cloud late into the evening when your girls are out at $1 pitcher night? Nobody.
So you're going to be a freshman. Thanks to your advisor/mom/campus tour/Bed Bath and Beyond advertisements, you think you're ready. You learned how to do laundry, you've purchased the Twin XL sheets, you measured your future dorm room (and cried when you realized you could touch all 4 walls from the middle of the room) and all those A.P. classes have prepared you for the workload that comes in college.
One night in the beginning of the semester, my roommates and I decided to drink tequila (read: my clothes would come off). A few hours in, I started to get the itch and texted the last boy I made out with. He was at a party and I was so desperate for some lovin' that I walked there by myself. When I got there, he was making out with another girl.
My sophomore year I lived with my best friend in an all-girls' dorm. Needless to say, squeezing 500+ girls into one building was begging for trouble. Constantly surrounded by tampon wrappers, curling irons and vaginas (I mean, really) took its toll on my tiny, horny roomie. She met a guy in her Creative Writing class who she believed to be "the One,"even though he was an obvious tool (bleach blonde, tan, AND president of a frat).
Giving up my nights out was not something I was especially prepared to do when I started scouring my college town for a job; who wants to be folding clothes amidst an asthma-inducing Abercrombie cologne cloud late into the evening when your girls are out at $1 pitcher night? Nobody. That's why I became a cocktail waitress.
Your cell phone alarm is going off in your ear to the tune off She Bangs by Ricky Martin, inducing the hangover you worked so hard for last night. Your body pillow is the most obliging (and loyal) bed partner you’ve had in months, and the monsoon outside is actually starting to lull you back to sleep. So what’s going to keep you from repeatedly hitting the snooze button and failing out of school?
To My Lovely Neighbors (aka the frat next-door): Y’all are great neighbors, you really are. I enjoy your Solo-cup adorned...