(500) Days of Side Boob

Imagine you’re walking down the street, minding your own business when suddenly it approaches: something between the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man and Will Ferrell with a tranquilizer dart in his neck, leaving behind a trail of booze, sweat and drool in its path. What a horror! You exclaim, as it slowly gets bigger and bigger, crying “mmmmmf I waaan sanwichesss! And peeeezzaaaa!” and as you dive to avoid its pale, blubbery, annoying wrath, you see it, and then you know: side boob. What we have here is a big, fat, mess.
After two weeks (and many years) we’ve had enough of you loud, whining, crying, violent crazy bitches who have already peed themselves and are about to throw up in their roommates bed, again. Weight doesn’t have anything to do with it, sometimes the skinniest girl at the party can become the biggest, fattest mess of all. So take a long, hard look in the mirror, because tonight, it could be you.
We admit, we ourselves have been there on many occasions. Everyone has their moments … nights … years … but there’s a difference between making mistakes occasionally and making them so often that you start to think its normal. It’s not. Even if you grew up in one of those prohibition-reenactment towns …
R: Is that a thing?
R: I don’t know, Utah? No?
… and just tasted your first sweet sip of Svedka, there’s no excuse for your fat, ridiculous messiness. Being surrounded by strangers may give you a sense of anonymity, but this campus will get smaller and smaller. Soon you’ll feel like you know everyone and all of them will remember that time you pooped.
We assumed that in the time it takes to get to college, the average person learns a thing or two about themselves, like, how to drink without becoming totally ridiculous and annoying. But if you just can’t help but be a ridiculous mess, if you’re genetically predisposed to messiness or if you crave it like a ridiculous mess-aholic, can you at least figure out your clothing size? Your BRA size? If you have big titties, trust us, we all know. We have eyes. They don’t cease to exist when you cover them appropriately and support them well. A little cleve is OK, we know, we got it, we do it, but must we always be subject to your side boob? Your UNDER BOOB?
And if you’re not sure, why not err on the side of clothed? Err on the side of not embarrassing yourself and your entire family. For all you vagina-showers out there, wearing underwear is arguably as important as wearing clothes, generally. Seriously, you might as well be naked, especially when you inevitably end up rolling around on the ground with your legs in the air. Just put on some tights! No one’s ever gonna be like, “Look at that girl wearing tights. She could be a fucking nun in those clothes.”
R: She could be a farmer in those clothes
R: That bitch is positively Elizabethan!
No one graduates from college wishing more people had seen their vagina, intentionally or otherwise. And we promise, if in the past two weeks some guy has already had the pleasure, he doesn’t want to be your boyfriend. He doesn’t want to see you or hear from you and he’s terrified that you know where he lives. He will beg the bus driver on your wine tour to pull over and let him off in the middle of no where and spend hours walking home, uphill, to avoid you. So you probably should not text him or send him Facebook messages or casually hang around outside his house. Just err on the side of not crazy. And regardless of his (probably bad) intentions, do you really want to date a guy who slept with you when you were a big fat mess? Do you really want to be the big-fat-mess-fucker’s girlfriend?
R: eh…
Remember that a bad reputation is easy to come by and nearly impossible to shake. Really remember this as you ponder the merits of hooking up with the nice guy you just met in the hallway as you were leaving his frat bros room at 4 a.m. Double points if you’re leaving because he kicked you out, triple if this has happened before, and a thousand if this has happened before that same night. When you run into one of them
R: or both of them! Aah!
On our tiny little bubble of a campus, they may act polite, but they think you are a walking disease, and they will tell many many people of your inglorious tale. Because everyone likes to tell a funny story, and you’ll be a hilarious one. And three years from now, when you’re walking out of the Goldman recruiting office and patting yourself on the back for a job well done, your interviewer is already on the phone with his boys, saying, “Dude, remember that girl who blew EVERYONE in our pledge class the same weekend and then pooped in the kitchen? … Nah man, the other one. The one we thought was dead … I know! How the fuck did she get out of that ditch! You don’t think the rest of them could’ve … ” Job well done indeed.
After three years (and two weeks) here we’ve suffered and witnessed enough mortifying messery to feel it our duty to share what we’ve learned and spare the next generation some of these more serious humiliations. And even if you claim not to care what anyone thinks, when you’re a big fat mess, you are everyone’s problem, because you are mad annoying. You are making everyone else embarrassed for being a member of the human race with you. So stop convincing yourself that everyone else was just as drunk, that nobody’s gonna remember anything, and that everyone poops on the floor at formals. Because they weren’t, they will, and nobody pooped but you.