As far as you’re concerned, every pledge’s name from here on out is just “Pledge.”
On the rare occasion that you actually attend a chapter meeting, all you’ll talk about is how much better everything used to be.
Every new sorority pledge class on campus will be given a 30-minute seminar on how to avoid falling for your charms.
Every new sorority pledge class on campus will fall for you regardless.
Your words of wisdom for the sophomore social chair will be as simple as “invite hot freshmen.”
ID checks at the bar will consist of nothing more than a casual head nod.
You’ve ran through so many sorority family trees that your nickname is Ancestry.com.
You will be granted shotgun by default in every single pledge ride.
The pledges will address you by your full name in person, and “the biggest douche on the planet” behind your back.
Every bartender will know the exact number of whiskey gingers you can drink before you become a liability.
You’ll never even bother downloading the plugin required to watch your online lectures.
The perfection of your shotgunning form will be described as “poetry in motion.”
You could sneak an entire keg into the football stadium if you really wanted to.
The house is littered with drywall holes that are oddly symmetrical to the shape of your fist.
“Don’t worry, I know a guy,” will be your go to response for nearly any scenario.
You’ve already forgotten the Greek alphabet, but you’ll ruthlessly punish any pledge who mispronounces “Xi.”
Your mother will be proud that you decided to take on that prestigious second major.
Your father will know you’re just fucking around.
Grad school for literally any subject will start to sound a hell of a lot better than the real world.
Normal students will hear “group project.” You’ll hear “shit other people are going to do for me.”
The only proof that you’re enrolled in classes will lie in a chaotic stack of syllabi in your closet.
The bare minimum will become your maximum.
You’ll suffer from “Super Senioritis.” It’s just like regular senioritis, but with 75% more substance abuse.
You’ll graduate from “fashionably late” to “fashionably blacked out.”
You have no idea what Entomology is, but the fact that a minor in it would give you an extra football season will sound pretty damn enticing.
Your number of sexual partners will start to look like a respectable batting average.
You’ll laugh when you see a girl’s engagement photos the morning after hooking up with her great-grand little.
You’ll be on a first name basis with your professors. Not because you work hard, but because this is the third time you’re taking the class.
Your dates on sorority functions will inevitably get fined because of your debauchery.
You’ll occasionally consider skipping happy hour for class.
You’ve spent more time researching easy bullshit classes over the years than you’ve ever spent studying.
Campus tour groups will go to the other side of the street when they see you approaching.
All of your best stories will begin just as last call ends.
You have the lungs, liver, and credit card statement of a 54-year-old alcoholic.
When attendance is 10% of your grade, it’ll be 0% of your concern.
You’ll have no desire to start shit with rival fraternities, but you’ll take every opportunity you can to encourage younger brothers to do so.
You’ll show up to every theme party dressed as “that really drunk guy.”
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