It’s 3:51 PM, and you wake up from your nap to the sound of your light skin friend screaming because De’Aaron Fox missed a go-ahead three, and the Spurs have the ball with seven seconds left. Every friend group from every means has a light skin friend, a biracial angel of sorts whose talents lay in A. talking to women, and B. he throws fits like Christian Bale on the set of Batman. You decide you want to see how his game finishes, so you throw on a set of gym shorts that, if put under a blacklight, would reveal more nefarious liquids than Bundy Drive in Brentwood, California in 1994. Two minutes into your friend’s OT, your house group chat starts blowing up because your one roommate who supposedly has a “foot in the door” at Deloitte is accusing the bartard who just got out of a relationship of stealing his pen. Things are getting personal, and the L-shaped couch that has collectively accrued $17,000 worth of gambling losses this year is about to see WWIII, so you decide to go back to your room.
Opening up Canvas is enough to convince yourself that you did something productive, so you fire up the Hub and watch Brandi Love be the most attentive and loving step-mom since Julia Roberts as Isabelle Kelly. While you’re sitting there, sticky and shameful, you begin having a profound debate in your head. Why do guys pretend they don’t like fake robust features on a woman? If they say that, they are probably lying because you like your B-E-W-B-Zs like you liked your Jordans in middle school…fake as shit.
After you get ready, you throw on a podcast and get walking to Subway. You see some guy pass you on a scooter and instantly become envious. You’re walking outside while your manhood is shriveling up like Patton Oswald after three comments from she/theys on Twitter, and this dude is going 12 miles an hour while hitting a vape. The transaction at Subway is a funny one. You pay eleven dollars for a sandwich made up of fake chicken, and in turn the seventeen-year-old kid asking you if you want your receipt gets a check from a corporation only to be overcharged for an 8th.
By the time you get back to your house, multiple underclassmen wearing Bass Pro Shop hats are scattered in your living room, as the sixth year guy who can’t get past his final accounting credit and thinks of himself as a white Udonis Haslem to these kids, is explaining how hazing was so much harder back in his day. You begin throwing BL’s back like your Shane Gillis hour two into a Rogan episode and shoot a snap text to the girl that vowed she would never come over again because you have navy bedsheets. She tells you which bar she and her friends are going to tonight, and you begin pounding underclassmen booze while watching what rawmeatexpirement posted to instagram today.
