Dear Sluts, We Hate You
I, along with the entirety of womankind, despise you. Why? Because you make life miserable for the rest of us for a whole host of reasons. Now, I recognize that we live in the greatest country in the world and that as such, we basically have the freedom to do whatever we want, but that freedom should not translate into letting every guy that makes eye contact with you penetrate you. I really don’t care about your tacky wardrobe, or the fact that you look like you belong with the ladies of the night on Hollywood Boulevard, and while I think it’s mega tacky to use hooking up as a means of getting attention, if your liberal use of your anatomy is the only way you can distract men from your lack of personality, I suppose that’s your own business. The issue lies in the fact that your lifestyle seems to be causing me some inconveniences, and I can’t stand for it any longer.
First of all, you are seriously ruining men for the rest of us, and it drives me crazy. Good ol’ boys who would have otherwise been a cinch to lock down are now very much a challenge, because they aren’t sure if they’re ready to “give up their freedom” i.e. sleep with girls like you every night. I’m not going to compete with you, because really, what’s the prize? Some rugburn as a tribute to having gotten with everyone on Greek Row? No, thank you.
You’ve not only ruined men’s characters, but also their penises. Remember the chlamydia outbreak on campus? Everyone was freaking out and had to go to the student health center to get tested for STDs. I blame you and your horde of whores. Gross.
It would be so easy to just whole-heartedly hate you, but we are friends, so I can’t, and I hate you for not letting me hate you. Mostly, I hate all the shit I have to deal with as a result of our friendship. I am tired of the pregnancy scares. Listening to you drone on about how you’re so worried, and how much you hate whichever guy it is this week, and walking all the way to the drugstore with you to buy a pregnancy test for the millionth time is hardly my definition of fun. I would be there for anyone if this happened one time, but I know you’re going to be out celebrating your not-mother-to-be status tonight with another visit to pound town. If I’m always so focused on you, it’s hard to focus on myself, and I need a lot of attention.
I am also OVER having the “no one will date me” conversation with you. Well duhhh. No one’s going to buy the cow when they can get the milk for free, especially when the cow is a slut, or the slut is a cow, or…what I’m trying to say here, is you’re fat. There’s no reason for someone to put in more effort, when all they need to do is text you to pregame to get what they want out of you. I know that for some reason you think you’re not a slut, but take a look at the facts. You steal boyfriends, you’re an attention whore, and have been resident cumdumpster for a whole pledge class since freshmen year. Change your ways, and you’ll stop having to defend them.