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We Get It, You’re In A Sorority

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As an apologetic possessor of a Y chromosome, it’s going to take a little bit more for me to understand that you are in a sorority. Although the customized Nalgene with Greek letters you’re holding seems to be good evidence, I’m not ready to dot any Is or cross many Ts when pinning you down as a sorority girl. Therefore, I’ll need you to follow some guidelines to lead my blind eyes to the strobe lights.

First, tell me all about how sorority girls are stereotyped as partiers who don’t care about people in need. This will be new information to me. Tell me about that one bake sale your sorority did to raise money for clean drinking water in Liberia. In fact, tell me it was so successful that you probably played a huge role in eradicating the Ebola virus in Africa. And brag a little bit for Christ’s sake. Your M&M blondies saved the world. Liken yourself to a 9/11 first responder. Remind me of that one time you cured polio.

Next, you could tell me all about your fall formal with the top-tier fraternity and how it’s nothing like any other party. For my uneducated mind to follow clearly, I would like you to present your argument in a three-pronged thesis statement. Perhaps like this: “Fall formal is like totally not like any other party because the boys get all dressed up in like blazers and stuff, the girls get all dressed up in dresses and stuff, and we drink Corona out of glass bottles so it’s like different from every other party it’s like hard to explain, you know?” Strong syntax, enlightened grammar, and I can see your nipples a little bit.

Then, let me see all of the pictures in your phone where you’re wearing a flower crown. If the intent of this act is to make it seem like you’re smarter than me, it worked.

Text me a link to your sorority’s merchandise page, but make sure to pin me in a corner and show me all the pictures of revealing sweaters because I wouldn’t have been able to look at them later since you didn’t just text me the link. This clothing is made exclusively for women. It’s all peach colored. Stare at me blankly until I apologize.

Tell me all about that “one fucking retarded night” when the frat was only serving Vlad and Hamm’s. Hyperbolize your displeasure with both drinks by placing your middle and index fingers halfway inside your mouth and pretending to gag, but make sure you leave enough light to broadcast me the black “X” on the back of your hand. I think I would like that very much.

Show me a feature film via Snapchat memories of all the times your big has placed an Edible Arrangement or a bottle of Sangria on your bed. Make sure that I see every video of you panning around your room, full of cheap electric candles and signs with bullshit inspirational messages in which the Greek letters of your sorority that kind of look like English letters are written in place of those English letters. Please explain to me that “I ΓΦVΣ MY ΓITTΓΣ” is a combination of your Greek letters and the phrase “I love my little,” because I won’t get it the first time.

Tell me that you love your big. And when I sarcastically congratulate you, tell me I could never really understand. You are right; I am a cold machine incapable of love. You two are divine. Your big, Mary the Immaculate Mother, and you, her offspring, except this time Jesus is a loud 19-year-old girl who just gave a blowjob to a plump rugby player as a “joke.”

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