She wakes up to her roommate saying, “not me filling up the Brita again,” which is a fair criticism, but she didn’t need to be so passive-aggressive, and it was probably still a fifth full…so that clown bitch can relax. She reaches into her fridge to open the day’s first celsius, which is a great way to energize and get a little anxious before opening up Linkedin and seeing that someone she hates accepted an offer in the city where she wants to live post-grad. Today’s breakfast is a nicotine sandwich topped off with a handful of Flavor Blasted goldfish and a coffee that costs a gallon of gas. Before heading to her first class, it’s imperative that she checks the weather. Around this time last year, she wore sweatpants on a day that started off cold and ended up seventy-three degrees, and it felt like she was at Tannacon.
Her first class goes alright; a guy that she hooked up two hair colors ago was in there, but she ghosted him because his room smelt like the Amphibians section of a pet store, and he never paid for drinks. There are three kinds of ways girls spend a four-hour window before their next class: A. smoke and lounge, B. pay $15 a session to do some fitness activity, or C. go to the library. But today’s Thursday. She’s going out tonight, so she feels like going home, taking a bowl, taking a forty-five-minute nap, and organizing her room before online shopping. Tonight’s pregame is her roommate’s friend’s birthday party. Does she want to go watch the girl who continuously pretends she knows everything about March Madness to impress guys because she learned what the word “over” meant last week, throw on a sash, and drunkenly belt out the lyrics to 22 by Taylor Swift? Not particularly. But her roommate is a little overdramatic, and the last thing she needs is the embers of world war three to begin to burn inside AND outside of her apartment
Girls have a few things that I wish guys had, but the art of pregaming a pregame while doing makeup and listening to their own music playlist is one of them. In the entirety of the thirteen minutes, it takes a man like me to get ready; I’m always rushed and always late because I got caught up in evidence that the CIA expired MLK, but something about doing eyeliner and sipping on a Watermelon white claw seems kind of sick. She knows there’s going to be plenty of alcohol at this pregame; however, it’s not her main group, so she gets a little loose before a 2016 Hyundai Sonata escorts them to their destination.
