Whatever social it was where you two fell in love, I could put money on the fact that whatever horribly sexist theme was chosen that night had the word ~hoes~ somewhere in the title. Regardless of the origin of this love story, here you are six months later, half psychotic but half grateful.
You spent four years in high school being told by your mom, your tutor, your coaches, and your annoyingly involved English teacher that you’ll meet ~your person~ in college. What they didn’t tell you when you weren’t old enough to even legally buy a lighter, is that although college is a new pond, there are absolutely zero forms of Google maps to guide you through the depths of these uncharted waters, and there are no manuals to tell you which fish are poisonous or not. What they don’t tell you is that in college, dating is weird—if we’re even calling it dating anymore, and frankly, you’re either going to sink, or you’re going to swim (for 4-6 months until he moves on to Jessica in Alpha Kappa Beta)…
Things are not how they used to be. We look to Instagram likes for the source of our confidence, and we reference our Snapchat streaks to gauge who in our inner circles are really “there” for us. We claim we want something authentic, yet we judge our romantic interests by their frat stardom, their dick size, how much money they have on daddy’s credit card and whether or not they’re viewing our snap story (which I seriously don’t get… am I the only person who clicks through the majority of all the bullshit you people post?…fuck.)
PLS do not count on me for viewing your 6-second content.
The thing with Greek life is that it’s basically just one big incestual cesspool of tiptoeing around with your flavor of the week, praying to god that their ex-fling from last week isn’t in the booth next to you to see when you both get up and take that “OUR Uber’s here” walk of shame across the entire club and leave together. You teeter between the question of “what’s too much?” and “what’s not enough?” You ride the metaphorical line of being a hoe and being prude all at the same time; because the thing about dating in the Greek world is that everyone knows everything about everyone, regardless if you care to know or not. It’s almost like there’s a dog whistle that only sorority girls with certain Instagram follower ratios can hear that dominates the sidewalks of Main street; just screeching out who’s getting laid every weekend…
Ain’t nobody got any privacy around here anymore.
Another downfall to being a frat-rat is that majority of the male fraternal population are absolute fucking scumbags. I seriously don’t care if Brad from Sigma Apple Pie seems like the most genuine angelic creature to ever emerge from a house with letters on it, Brad is a great liar. That “thing” you like that Brad does—he did not learn in the first row at church or volunteering with sick puppies. Brad is a lying, conniving, manipulative human being in Sperry’s and a quarter zip that you should probably get the hell away from before he fucks one of your sorority sisters. Or a few.
Okay, okay. Don’t get me wrong. My days of being comfortable enough to walk around barefoot (still regretting that one three years later) in a filthy fraternity house, staying up to date on all the boy drama, and getting the invite to date parties, formals, and everything in between wasn’t all that bad.
To be honest, being a frat-rat isn’t bad at all, it’s the trauma after the fact (LMAO). Because the thing about frat boys is that when they get too comfortable, they play their favorite card in their deck—the Psycho card.
Just when things seem to be getting good; like clockwork ~Brad~ suddenly “isn’t looking for anything serious.” Brad will probably take you on dates here and there, buy you a drink or six on the weekends, and invite you to sleepover 7 days of the week. Brad honestly might even tell you allllll about his family, his hopes and dreams about his mixtape going viral, he’ll ask you if he can be the little spoon like a total little bitch, and probably tell you all kinds of pansy-ass bullshit that boys hide from the general public. He’ll definitely tell you “you’re special to him.” But I swear to fucking god, if you think you and Brad are an item then you are legit a psychotic bitch. Brad does not have time for that?! Brad has no idea what you mean when you tell him you’re confused as to why he ghosted you after months of “~talking~” because in the world of Brad, if it looks like a girlfriend, walks like a girlfriend, and talks like a girlfriend, it isn’t a girlfriend unless Brad SAYS it’s a girlfriend.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve witnessed one of my friends falling into the Brad trap, let us have a moment of silence for our fallen soldiers.
Lol…Bottom line, don’t fucking let boys (esp. Brad) call you psycho. Remember ladies, it takes one to know one, and only a true psychopath frat boy will act like a total pussy and then turn around to somehow place blame on the girl. UH HUH HUNNIES.
So, to all my fellow frat-rats, groupies, fuck buddies, situationships, and victims to your college’s local Brad, I salute you.
And a special shout out to those venturing back to my own college town this weekend for homecoming, I’ll pour one out for you and all your ghosts past you’ll be running into Friday night. Oh, and to “All The Boys I’ve Loved Before’, I hope to god I’m a ghost you’re hiding from;) (seriously don’t fucking talk to me lol)
Until Next week,