The Five Year Secret

When you like to talk as much as I do, you can rapidly (and accidentally!) enter some dangerous territory in terms of your conversation topics. Sometimes it’s just in the form of telling a story that really didn’t go anywhere, or telling a joke that really didn’t go anywhere, or telling a joke about a girl telling a story about a bus that didn’t go anywhere (ba dum chh), but sometimes a person can get so wrapped up in the art of running their mouth that a secret or two just pops out, and boom, trouble’s afoot. Cartoon characters have it easy, because they can easily grab the slip-up in mid-air and cram it back in their mouths before anyone actually notices that they made a verbal boo-boo, but the rest of us have to either keep talking and hope no one caught our little mishap, or own up to it and get ready for a stream of explanations and apologies to whomever the secret was about. I really don’t try to do this, it just happens! You’ve done worse, I’m sure, like that time you…JUST KIDDING.

On the other hand, there are certain skeletons in my closet that won’t see the light of day for quite some time. Five years, to be exact. You see, while some classified info goes into my mental file cabinet without it’s “Do Not Repeat!” tag, other stuff is highlighted, strung with Christmas lights, and practically set on fire to remind me that it is a major hush-hush topic. I invented the Five Year Secret because was trying to prematurely bail myself out. I figure whatever it is that was done/said won’t hold much importance to whoever it could potentially offend five years after the fact, so it provides a nice buffer for me to forget entirely (thus, avoiding the issue altogether) or we can all share a hearty giggle about our ridiculous selves a half-decade ago.

Let’s discuss which hypothetical secrets that I have zero knowledge about or connection to at all serve as perfect candidates for the Five Year Secret:

Hooking up with a friend’s boyfriend:  If you’re a true bitch, you do this type of thing on the daily and therefore could not care less whether or not you’re “friend” finds out about your dismissively slutty behavior. The rest of the world has Jiminy Cricket sitting on their shoulder screaming “Whooore!” right into their ear. Hopefully if this happens, it was an accident, a one-time thing, and you went home and immediately threw up from the guilt. Ideally, you would tell the friend from the get-go, get the fight over with, and go back to being BFF’s at least a week later (Yes, that long. You hooked with her boyfriend ya skank!). However, if you choose to keep it to yourself, you have no choice but to initiate the FYS. The longer you wait, the more the phrases “Why didn’t you tell me?!” and “How could you do that to me?!” will be thrown around in progressively screechier tones, so it’s best to let the entire situation ride itself out. Five years from now, she will inevitably have another boyfriend and your indiscretion can be chalked up to immaturity, and you two can joke about what a loser he was while your little part in the whole ordeal slides under the radar. If you don’t see it going your way, add a year. Or two. Or just make the bed you lie in and stop inviting other people’s boo thangs in there with you.

·         Let the record show that I do not condone this type of behavior, and I would recommend that you tell your friend that she is dealing with a horribly conniving prostitute friend as well as an inconsiderate, deceitful douchebag of a boyfriend. It sucks, but as a gal pal, so do you. 

Hitting someone’s car: [Assuming no one saw it happen,] regardless of if it was your mom’s SUV while you were pulling out of the driveway or a random stranger’s convertible in the mall parking lot, if you caused significant damage, you keep your mouth shut. These things are very easy to get yourself out of without getting into deep trouble. In the mom’s car situation, all you have to do is quietly drive yourself to a random destination, wait a few minutes, conjure up a wobbly voice and some tears, and call her up with a story about how “Someone must have slammed into it and just driven away while you were in [church/homeless shelter/donating bone marrow/feeding starving ducks] and they didn’t even leave a note!” You’re automatically in the clear, and the imaginary jerk is suddenly the subject of your mom’s scorn. In the mall parking lot, the only option you have is to peel out of there as quickly and stealthily as humanly possible. Some people might think these measures are a little excessive and that five years might be unnecessarily long for something so miniscule, but those people have A) never met my mom’s wrath and B) have never had to pay $2000 for scratching a brand new Lexus parked outside of Subway. After keeping the FYS, your mom probably won’t be able to distinguish an old dent/scratch from a new one, and the poor fella at the mall will have let go of his grudge and learned to park his car in a wide open spot rather than right on the line. Your depth perception might also improve over this time…

Hazing activities: We’ve all heard the myth that in order to initiate into a frat, guys will have to have sex with a goat. We haven’t? Well your eyes just got opened WIDE, didn’t they? Anyway, whether you had to remake the scene from Clerks 2, chug a das boot full of your fellow pledges’ urine, circle jerk, or anything else even remotely homoerotic to prove your allegiance to “the brotherhood,” it’s probably in your best interest to keep it on the DL until you’re out of undergrad. Sure, prospective employers whose connection you received through your fraternity will have allegedly gone through the same thing and will understand your pain, but bros can discuss a lot of ridiculous college events, and jacking off your pledge brother in the darkness of the chapter room is not one of them. This will probably be hilarious to reminisce about after five years, given that Brian didn’t develop some weird bestiality fetish, Greg didn’t get a horrible throat infection from his “cock”tail, and Justin didn’t come out of the closet. What fun would a FYS be without some extra surprises?

Peeing your pants after age 9: You should never admit to this. Not five years later, not ten years later, never. Even if people were there to witness it, vehemently deny it. This is right up there with kissing an ugly person and once having an extra toe; it just didn’t happen. Let’s practice:

“Hey, didn’t you pee your pants in Macy’s once?”

“Nope, not me.”

“What’s up Professor Pee Pee Pants?”

*Look around confused to see who they’re referring to*

“Remember that time you…”

“NO I DO NOT.”

Billy Madison had it completely wrong: you AIN’T cool if you pee your pants. You just ain’t. 

There are countless scenarios where the Five Year Secret is far superior to telling the truth. If you don't know, ask. I'm keeping so many of my own right now my brain might explode, which is pretty telling of how embarrassingly nuts my life is. Luckily, we're closing in on the secrets of 16/17-year-old Skylar, so a huge load will be lifted off of my shoulders soon. And depending on how understanding everyone is, a few friends might be lifted off my shoulders as well. Stay tuned!

Kollege Kid Kard

I think they should hand out passes at the beginning of your freshman year that are similar to those punch cards at Dunkin Donuts granting you a free coffee after your tenth visit. Every time you do something quintessentially “Colleeeeeege,” you get a space punched out, and instead of freebies at the end, you get a diploma. There are certain aspects of college that everyone – no matter who you are or where you go – simply must partake in to get the full experience.

• Making your RA’s life a living hell by wreaking sexual-innuendo-laden havoc on the bulletin board she spent way too much energy decorating? *Punch!*
• Showing up still wasted to class on Friday morning only to participate more than you ever have all semester and probably ever will again? *Punch!*
• Getting into a huge fight with the kid you were sorta kinda dating and texting him at 3am that same night to “see what he’s up to”? *Triple Punch!*

I’ve crammed a lot of calamity into my college experience, but there are some things that I will never receive punches for. And I’m strangely cool with that, because I’d rather save my funtimes up for occasions that don’t put me in hilarious danger or make me look like a complete asshole (at least not intentionally).

Here are the ways in which I lose my Kollege Kid Kard:

Not liking Dave Matthews Band: Getting this fact out in the open puts me in great danger of getting shanked by just about everyone I hang out with, but they can suck it, because the man sounds like he’s had the hangy ball in the back of his throat shot with more than the recommended dose of Novocain, and I can’t stand it. “But Skylar, he’s a great song writer!” “But Skylar, they’re such influential philanthropists!” “But Skylar, how could you not love Under the Table and Dreaming?!” I SAID SUCK IT. I’ll take it a step further: A lot of their stuff sounds the same to me; I get “Crash Into Me” and “Where are You Going” confused all the time. There is a certain thing called variety, and Dave ain’t got it in my book. If nothing else, I should probably feel some sense of camaraderie towards the guys based on the fact that they’re from Charlottesville, VA, which is very close to my hometown, but I can’t/won’t even give them that, because Charlottesville is boring as shit. So go off and follow them around like the Deadheads of the 21^st century; Incubus is better anyway.

Never having bonged a beer: I am 5’0” (5’1” on a good day), and although the speed with which I can scarf down a Bruschetta Chicken Burger from Red Robin might suggest my stomach capacity is similar to that of Joey Chestnut’s, physically and logically it just cannot be so. Therefore, I am understandably not comfortable with the idea of that much beer entering my body that fast, and me not either puking or burping in a very manly fashion. Anatomy aside, I have a few personal qualms with the whole “beer bong” practice. For starters, I’m not a chugger. Relaxing my throat sends beer straight down my trachea. I have no egotistical need to be a hero, and I don’t try to be. Secondly, I have a one-track mind that is excellent for quick delivery of That’s What She Saids, but not so great when anything tubular is in or around someone’s mouth. A lot of the time, beer bongs are taken on the knees, and that opens up a whole new world of naughty jokes altogether. Finally, pouring a beer that fast results in an absurd amount of foam, and that’s not only hard to swallow but also a huge waste of my time. I’m just fine casually sipping my classy whiskey and Coke and observing the other party time favorite in which I will never participate: keg stands.

No stories involving homeless men: Honestly, I’m kind of crossing my fingers for this one to still happen, but only if the experience turns out as awesome as some of my friends’ have. For instance, one of my good friends met her hobo pal while cutting through a field on her way home one night. His name was Gravel, and they met on the train tracks. Although the story had all the makings of a Dateline Exclusive, Gravel was very kind and directed her and her friend through the field so they could get back to campus. He may have been missing about 97% of his teeth, but she’ll be damned if he wasn’t helpful. Something similar happened to another one of my friends as she and a couple of other girls were walking home from a bar. Unfortunately, their hobo friend wasn’t nearly as helpful or sweet, didn’t have a cool name, and I’m pretty sure they had trash thrown at them. Still, a story’s a story, and I’m always looking for something new to add to my arsenal of ridiculousness, so if I have to put my personal safety in jeopardy and risk getting taken away to someone’s underground vagrant lair in a storm drain, I’m all about it.

Never attended a PCB Spring Break: I know, right?! How could I possibly have made it to this point in my life without a visit to the Mecca of drunken tomfoolery? Actually, that’s probably exactly how I’ve made it to this point in my life. A trip to Panama City, Fla. leaves you susceptible to any or all of the following things: dehydration, amnesia, Chlamydia, crippling regret, babies. I don’t need any of those things in my life. That is not to say I’m entirely opposed to the idea, though. There are certain aspects of a PCB Spring Break that I would definitely be a fan of, such as meeting D-list reality TV stars, participating in booty shaking contests, and working hard in the gym for three months prior to the trip only to have picture upon picture taken of myself sporting an embarrassing beer belly. How have I deprived myself for so long?  

Not owning Vera Bradley merchandise: I love colorful things. I love printed things. Colorful printed random things that are attention grabbing and girly and wonderful. That being said, I cannot stand Vera Bradley. At first I thought it was just the popularity that got to me. Everywhere I looked, there were hundreds of girls with the backpacks holding the matching laptop case with a matching ID case on their matching lanyard, and suddenly I was so overwhelmed by “Safari Sunset” and “Pinwheel Pink” that I almost threw up quilted paisley florals all over myself. On second thought, it might be the names of the patterns themselves that riled me up. It can go anywhere from just plain “Olive” all the way up to “Floral Nightingale,” and quite frankly that’s a lot of creative license for someone to take. “Twirly Birds” in pink OR navy? Can you even do that? The fact that there are so many options and it seems as though people only own stuff in “Rhythm and Blues,” “Happy Snails,” or “Make me Blush” is just ridiculous. Finally, Vera has taken it way too far in the sheer variety of products she sells. Duffels, garment bags, makeup cases; all good and well. But then we get into the curling iron covers, the placemats, the coolers, and the photo albums, and I feel like she’s being a little greedy. Cornering the market and knowing your audience shows excellent business savvy, but who in their right mind would pay $22 for a stationary set? I’ll stick to something a little less Java Blue, thank you.  

Geezer

            There are several diseases that just aren’t funny. I cannot and will not ever joke about any type of cancer. Multiple sclerosis is a heart-wrenching thing to watch someone endure. Anyone that finds humor in AIDS might as well have it themselves because they clearly have no soul worth sharing with others anyway.

            But Alzheimer’s? Alzheimer’s is hysterical.

            My grandpa was officially diagnosed in 2008, and every subsequent family get-together was inherently entertaining. He was never a patient man to begin with, but as he got irritated over the misplacement of a newspaper or forgetting which channel ESPN was, cursing the entire situation with a “Goddamnit! Christ almighty!” vented his frustration and offered plenty of comedic fodder for my brothers and I to work with.

Growing up, Grandpa would generously send the three of us checks either at the beginning of the school year or the end of the school year or sometime around Yom Kippur even though much to my dismay, we’re in no way, shape, or form Jewish. My oldest brother would rake in a whopping $75, which would lead the naïve eye to believe that my other brother and I would be receiving the same fortune. Erroneous on all [bank] accounts. Middle Bro would collect a cool $50, and yours truly would be left with $25. Thanks Grandpa, how equally-divisible of you. The checks stopped a-coming around the time the thoughts stopped a-flowing, which is pretty unfortunate because as far as I’m concerned, I should’ve made my way up to at least $40 by now. But when a man has trouble dressing himself and obliviously wanders the streets at midnight with just his walker and a dream, it’s understandable when the silly nuances fall by the wayside.

As things progressed (or regressed, depending on how you look at it), the amusement factor skyrocketed. Grandpa had to move out of his house and in with my aunt, which was like a sitcom waiting to happen. Grandpa thought this meant he had upgraded to the penthouse at the Ritz, and like any true diva, immediately made everyone around him his bitch. While he could usually identify my dad after some gentle coaxing, my brothers were always some kind of room service attendant, my aunt and uncle were the concierge and maid, respectively, and my mom and I got to switch off acting as his “girlfriend” (sorry, Grandma). Talk about awkwardly-hilarious. Now I know how Anna Nicole Smith felt. We tried to remind him that we were family, but I’m pretty sure when you get to a certain age, you’ll call anyone anything they want as long as they’ll get you a glass of orange juice and find out what time the UConn game is on.

Grandpa was always good for a quick ego boost. A short note would usually accompany every check we received, telling us how ridiculously awesome we were. Of course, Grandpa would put his own twist on this seemingly standard practice of showing grandparental love. Instead of waiting for us to tell him about our achievements, he would pull a Ms. Cleo and adore us like some kind of geriatric fortune cookie.

Skylar, You’ve done a wonderful job in school this year, getting all A’s and just two B+’s! You played soccer in the fall and practiced very hard in order to make the all-star team. You are a beautiful dancer, taking ballet, tap, and jazz classes; you danced wonderfully in your end-of-year recital! You will grow to be an even more generous, kind, and loving person, and this next year will treat you even better than the last. Keep smiling and enjoy your summer.

Love, Grandpa and Grandma

           

Compare that to the blank stare and muttering of Polish we were met with as of late and it goes without saying that things were getting a little dicey up in this hotel.

            The day before I left for Austria, I got to see my grandpa. He hadn’t eaten in over a week and could barely open his eyes, much less write me a check or give me a compliment. Taking a cue from John Q, I told him, “See ya later” and with a peck on the cheek, went off on my adventure.

Since I couldn’t receive calls overseas, my mom informed me of his death via e-mail about a week and a half later. In a darkly humorous twist of fate, his funeral was scheduled for my birthday (pretty elaborate joke, if you ask me).

I obviously didn’t get to go.

I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye, I didn’t get to thank him for the many accolades, and I’ll never get to pay him back for all of the memories I had acquired over the years.

            It’s funny how things work out.

You Play Ball Like A GIRL

Football season is one of the most trying times in a girl’s life.

Each year, for about 5-6 months, we are expected to be patient in the face of mood swings due to an unexpected loss; understanding when a low-key night of Netflixing snuggled up on the couch turns into an all-out brofest; and “interested” when dinner conversation centers confusingly around the quarterback’s injuries and how that’ll effect the rest of the season. The Super Bowl is our own personal celebration, signifying the end of all the madness while ushering in basketball season, which we can at least sort of follow.

Hate to break it to ya ladies, but there’s not much that can be done right now. You’re stuck in a whirlwind of “Babe I’ll be late picking you up, they just fumbled!” and “If they’re drafting fifteen or below I think it opens up more opportunities to include basically any position other then wide receiver or tight end, you know what I mean?”

No. No I do not. But you know what? I’m gonna grin and bear it because regardless of your nonsensical jabbering and the fact that I only cheer when everyone else in the room does, there are actually some aspects of football season that I enjoy:

Serious Stud Muffins: I am convinced that a large portion of the try-out process is based on how good a guy looks. This also pertains to soccer and lacrosse, but I digress. Naturally, the quarterback is always a major babe, unless he’s Peyton Manning, whose reputation precedes him so he can get away with being an arguable 6.5. I understand that all of the pads and protection are for safety’s sake, but sometimes I wish they’d take it back to playground rules so I could drool over Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush in all their glory. The best part is, regardless of how good of a player they truly are, attractive athletes are exploited to the nth degree by any and all women’s magazines. Gone are the days when a Google image search only returned results of sideline action shots or the occasional new Madden cover. Hot players know they’re hot, and when they do a sexy shirtless photo shoot that still maintains their masculinity because it’s appearing in Men’s Health (“no homo”), it’s only a matter of time before Cosmo secures them a spot in their “2012 Bachelor of the Year.” If only we could convince them all to hit a little gentler so as not to put those pretty faces in danger.

Adorable Names: Unfortunately, those huge space helmets get in the way of my ogling, so I’m forced to rely on the jerseys to distinguish who my faves are. Tom Brady and Mark Sanchez might be hottie totties, but their monikers leave something to be desired. Give me someone like Felix Jones any day. The guy’s named after a cartoon cat, how could you not immediately love him?! The mothers of these football stars knew exactly what they were doing when they signed that birth certificate, because anyone with a name like Bear Pascoe, Ovie Mughelli, or Ryan McBean was destined for greatness. My personal favorite, however, has to be Chicago Bears head coach Lovie Smith. LOVIE. SMITH. He sounds like he hangs out with the Teletubbies and washes his clothes in Snuggle fabric softener all the livelong day. This might in fact be true, because if the work-hard-play-hard theory has any clout, then after establishing his team as second in the league during his first two seasons – achieving a franchise-record 6 touchdowns via defensive return in 2004 and ranking second in overall defense in 2005 – Lovie Dovie can do whatever precious things he wants with his free time. I hear he enjoys painting rainbows and cried while watching The Fox and the Hound. What a sweetie-pie!

DWTS Contestants: Over twelve seasons, Dancing with the Stars has signed on eight former or current NFL players. Jerry Rice, Jason Taylor, and Warren Sapp all came in second place in their respective seasons, with Emmitt Smith and Hines Ward winning it all in theirs. Chad Ochocinco and Kurt Warner at least rounded out the top five, and I guess we’ll all just have to forgive Lawrence Taylor for resting on his Hall of Fame laurels too much to care (and whatever, he was a New York Giant so in my book, he can do whatever the hell he pleases). If ever a player has a remarkably good season or happens to do something remotely noteworthy, they can basically bank on an appearance on this show. Good job securing your spot when you did, Chad, because now that you’re back with the last name Johnson I doubt anyone would give you a second glance. What better way to spend Monday Night Football commercial breaks than to switch over to ABC to watch those hard-hitting man-beasts transform into graceful twinkle toes as they Paso Doble off the field and straight into our hearts.

Color Coordination: I don’t care how sports-savvy of a chick you are; everyone has walked into a room and squealed, “Ooh! Is teal beating silver?” Team names are hard, and with 32 of them to remember, it’s only logical that we revert to our comfort zone, which, in this case, is how cute their outfits are. Teams with expert fashion sense, such as the Giants, Falcons, Colts, and Raiders have colors I can work my wardrobe around, showing some spirit without looking a hot mess. No one looks bad in red and blue! Despite the fact that everyone rightfully hates the Cowboys and their quarterback is viewed as the Jesus of the South even though he has one good week for each of his umpteen embarrassing ones (can’t blame it on Jessica Simpson forever, Romo!), they’ve got colors I can work with. The same cannot be said for the Cincinnati Bengals. I can’t justify wearing Halloween colors five times longer than necessary. Redskins: maroon and gold? Potentially flattering on their own, but combine them and I look like I’m dressed in stale ketchup and mustard. And maybe it’s just the association with cheese that I can’t get myself past, but not even Lil Wayne singing greenandyellowgreenandyellowgreenandyellowgreenandyellow will brainwash me enough to support the color scheme the Packers have going on. I’m all for team distinction and showing your support, but can’t we all just do it in neutrals with the occasional pop of color? Just a suggestion, Mr. Commissioner…

A Message from Irene

Hey Whores,

            So I guess I should, like, apologize for all that craziness I caused this past week. Flooding New York, sO cRaZy! I know everyone’s mad and lives were ruined and blah blah blah, but it, like, really wasn’t my fault. For real! Hear me out.

            Okay so first, I broke up with my boyfriend. I actually ended it because he was so controlling and has such a temper and always wanted all this attention and I’m like, “Um, HELLO, I’m at least a category 3, you need to appreciate me better!” You know what I’m saying? Frustratingggg. So yeah, dumped his ass, and kid goes ballistic. Causes a huge rumble throughout the East coast but since he always acts so irrationally without any follow through, he didn’t cause like any damage and just rattled some nerves. Typical! Still, he was like a 5.8 so I’ll probably drunk dial him this weekend…

            Obviously, that whole thing pissed me off a little. I went to get margs with my friend Katrina because she had been through, like, the same thing with her ex-boyfriend a few years ago. Ugh, looooove girlfriends. She was like, “Girl, this is YOUR breakup and he’s taking the spotlight. Hell to the no! You need to go out there and show him how it’s really done!” Side note: Katrina’s kind of a huge betch, but she invites me to her beach house every summer so whatev. And anyway, after a fishbowl strawberry margarita and free shots from the creepy divorced men at the bar, she made a lot of sense. Don’t judge me! So I totes agreed and went out and did my thang.

            Another thing was that it’s that time of the month. I know, right? All of these things piled into one? FML. I, like, wasn’t even that mad and didn’t plan on getting that out of control, but I ran out of Midol and my cramps were unnnreal and I knew that everyone was gossiping about me and my life so I was all, “Sorry I’m SO interesting, assholes. I’ll give you something to talk about!” and went nutso. Be real, you would’ve done the same thing in my position. It’s like, don’t mess with a bitch who can do it better, you know?

            Anywayz, I guess I did a pretty decent job of fucking shit up. Those people in Vermont are all, “How do we deal with this?” and I’m like, “Suck it! Sorry I’m not sorry!” I mean I don’t wanna come off as Crazy Girl or anything, but I think I totally showed my ex who really runs the show and now I’m like, such a celeb. Look for me flashing my Britney to the paparazzi sometime soon! I’m gonna make bank off of this US Weekly interview.

Love ya XOXO,

Irene

How to be Hot: Girl Edition

It would not be fair to instruct boys how to be hot without giving a little advice to the ladies. Statistically, girls have it much easier when it comes to transforming into a more attractive version of themselves. Half the time, all you have to do is change out of your overalls and get an Acuvue prescription a la Rachael Leigh Cook in She’s All That and you’re golden. But there are certain trends and behaviors that make a girl undeniably unappealing to those around her, and I’m here to save you from yourselves.

It’s about to get betchy up in here; deal with it.

1. Get rid of the skunk hair: It is entirely possible for someone to have an array of shades throughout their coif that are completely natural, due to genes or sunlight or whatever else. No one questions girls with subtly-colored hair because it really doesn’t warrant much notice, and even if she DID dye it, girlfriend did a fantastic job and should be commended for such strategic highlighting skills. The difference between this girl and Pepe le Whatthefuckdidyoudotoyourself is the fact that her hair isn’t peroxide blonde on top and pitch black underneath. Do not argue with me: you look like an idiot. I have no idea who started this trend but she needs to be hung by a Repunzel rope made of her own bad decisions. I don’t think even Locks of Love would accept that trash. It’s not cute, you don’t look sexy in any sense of the word, and no matter how many times I see it I always assume that the girl is either A) pregnant or B) smelly. What’s wrong with monotone? Go buy yourself a box of Medium Golden Brown and reap the benefits of automatically looking less and less like a reject from Rock of Love.

2. Avoid crusty lashes: Makeup is our friend, girls. I won’t feed you some bullshit that we’d all be better off going au naturale because that’s a bold-faced lie, and it’s just common sense that a pretty girl can turn instantly gorgeous with a little eyeliner and some well-placed bronzer. Unfortunately, it’s a slippery slope into spider-eye territory, and before you know it, a few friendly swipes of your mascara wand can leave your lids feeling 10 pounds heavier and your face looking like Janice from The Muppets. If your eyelashes are separated and have a dark tint, there is absolutely no reason to continue to add another umpteen layers so that it looks like you have just four megalashes that each has a personality of his/her own. I apologize for my insincerity if you happen to have OCD and this is just one of your rituals, but use that time to straighten out your refrigerator or something that doesn’t make you look like a crack whore.

3. Be aware of whether or not you can pull off jeggings: I have a huge ass. I’m Italian and Polish, I really didn’t stand a chance. I’m very wary of anything extremely tight-fitting because I know that without trying my donk is going to command some pretty substantial attention, so when jeggings first appeared on the fashion radar, I generally ignored them because there was NO WAY my humps my humps my humps were going to be contained. It seems that not all girls are this self-aware. More power to ya if you’re conscious of the junk in your trunk and still choose to rock pants that are essentially a second skin, but there really is a fine line between “you go girl” and “Girl, you need to go check yourself in a mirror because the fabric is stretching so tightly over your goods I can practically see your crack and it’s scaring me.” Leave something to the imagination. Buy the next size up. Stick with normal jeans, they’re a lot more durable and they don’t have an obnoxious hybrid name that already sounds like a wedgie waiting to happen.

4. Do not wear any perfume by Britney Spears: You know in Mean Girls when Janice says, “What’s that smell?” and Cady responds, “Oh, Regina gave me some perfume,” to which Janice says, “You smell like a baby prostitute”? I am 99.9% sure that the perfume Regina gave to Cady was Curious. If you can pinpoint the strongest scent of the perfume as some kind of über sugary candy or anything else cavity-inducing, and you proceed to drench yourself in it like some kind of slut baptismal, you really need to reevaluate your direction in life. Smelling good is a huge plus and is one of the easiest ways to attract guys (bonus points if you get the illegal stuff with pheromones, but that gets where things get shady), but there’s no need to reek of Willy Wonka’s newest concoction. I wouldn’t exactly endorse anything by Paris Hilton or Hilary Duff either, but anyone who throws a few rhinestones on a bright pink bottle of skank juice is no friend of mine.

5. Shave your legs: This shouldn’t even need to be said. If you’re trying to bag yourself a hottie, hairy legs are like holding a huge neon sign that says, “I couldn’t care less about myself! I smell like patchouli! You’re going to put me in the friend zone…IF I’M LUCKY! We’ll go on dates to Kroger after you take that other girl to the zoo and to get ice cream! What’s shampoo?” Everyone gets lazy, and everyone gets to a point in mid-January where it’s freezing cold outside, you haven’t had a romantic prospect in a solid six weeks, and all you want to do is sit in your sweatpants and color coordinate your school planner, but should the opportunity arise for you to getchoself some male attention you need to be ready. While it may be fun to see who out of your roomies can grow the longest leg hair, no one’s laughing at the disgusted face your boy toy makes when he discovers the Amazon growing above your ankles. Get Skintimate stat.

6. Swap the running shorts for real clothes once in a while: 8am’s are a bitch, I totally hear you. Doing anything but throwing on a random t-shirt and some flip-flops and hiding your makeup-less face behind a pair of Nicole Ritchie-huge sunglasses is practically torture that early in the morning, but consider this: how many other girls woke up and did the exact same thing? I recently sat on campus and counted the number of girls who walked by wearing the TSM uniform of Nike running shorts, a GO GREEK t-shirt, Sperry’s, a Vera Bradley bag, and a ponytail and thought about how happy I was to be wearing…not that. My friends give me shit all the time for “dressing up” for class when in actuality I’m wearing denim shorts and something not produced by Hanes, but I have to say, the boys definitely notice. I’m not suggesting you go all out every single day, but stand apart from the pack once in a while in something that takes about a minute of extra effort and I know you’ll be changed forever. Jessica Simpson was actually onto something when she sang “A little bit goes a long way,” but she up and dropped the ball when she went on to belt out, “With nothing but a t-shirt on.” And who’s married to Nick Lachey now? I’m not sayin, I’m just sayin.

If you know a girl who would benefit from this list, do whatever you have to do to get the message to her. Print it out and slide it under her door, copy-and-paste it into a Facebook message (or post it directly onto her wall if you’re a huge asshole), read the most helpful item directly to her followed by a slap across the face and a drill sargeant-worthy, “Honey, get your shit together!”, etc. Like I said, girls have it easy. There are very few females in this world who are lost causes, and even those girls somehow get themselves a boyfriend from time to time. Seriously, if all you have to do is have normal-colored hair and a pair of well-fitting pants to be considered remotely good-looking, wouldn’t you do it? That’s a yes.

How to be Hot: Guy Edition

Many times, when articles like this are written, they’re prefaced with a disclaimer stating that all of the below information should be taken as a joke, that it’s completely satirical, and that it’s for entertainment purposes only.

This is not one of those times.

I am dead serious.

Being attractive is not hard, and let’s face it, it’s a hell of a lot easier than being fugly. There are a few simple measures that should be taken that I can guarantee will up your hotness factor by at least 70%. Who wouldn’t want those odds? Here we go:

1. Buy Crest Whitestrips: Yellow teeth are absolutely disgusting. I want nothing to do with a boy with pee-stained Chiclets. You smoke? You’re addicted to coffee? Your toothbrush broke twelve years ago? Fine. A box of these babies will run you about thirty bucks and you instantly look cleaner, wealthier, and all around more bangable. I have met more than my fair share of boys with great smiles and a fantastic laugh that I would rather see don a Silence of the Lambs-esque mask than open their mouths. To look in a mirror and see nothing wrong with two rows of teeth colored with highlighters is a serious problem. Please remedy the situation ASAP.

2. Get in the gym: One of the dead giveaways that a boy is a freshman – besides the lanyard around his neck and “What’s your major?” being his go-to pick-up line – is his scrawny body. I don’t care if you’re naturally small-boned and didn’t get the genes of Arnold Schwarzenegger (although now you might want to reexamine that option), there is no excuse for girly arms. I don’t want to size you up and come to the conclusion that I’d murder you in an arm wrestling match. Go to the gym and start lifting. Being smaller is fine, but looking frail makes me want to donate to the Make a Wish foundation in your honor, and if all of that nonsense can be avoided by a few reps on the lat pull-downs and a push up or fifty, it’s worth it.

3. Clear up that face: You went through puberty many moons ago, my friend, and it’s time for the acne to go. There are like 500 different products on the market right now that will fix your situation and preserve your sexy, just like P. Diddy says. I understand that zits can be tough to conquer and in some cases, you might just say fuck it and bail on your skincare regime, but stay the course and you will reap the benefits of having great skin. It should also be noted that boys with bad skin also usually have gross teeth, so if you fall into this category, please refer to #1.  

4. Step up your shoe game: I’m judgmental. I’m sure you couldn’t tell. I can automatically determine whether or not I like a guy within the first seven seconds of meeting him based entirely off of two factors: his nose and his shoes. The latter of the two is crucial. I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, what you did, as long as you’re not wearing all-white New Balances. If I think even for a second that you mow the lawn in your footwear of choice, strike one you’re out. Acceptable shoe apparel: Sperry’s, Nike Dunks, Rainbow flippies, Vans that haven’t been decorated with Sharpie (are you a preteen girl?), and Converse Chuck Taylor’s in black, grey, navy, or tan. That is seriously all. We’ll discuss that shnoz another time.

5. DON’T get rid of your glasses: This sounds ass-backwards based on what is typically delivered by advice circles formulating their points entirely off of pop culture, but I swear to god those specs are babe magnets. Whether or not you’re actually intelligent won’t matter in the slightest when that girl from your physics lab spots you studying and/or “studying” in the library, absent-mindedly readjusting your frames and concentrating on the equation at hand. Suddenly, she shoots her BFF a text saying, “Hey, did you know [secret nickname for you, probably offensive] wears glasses? He’s at the lib looking sextastic right now. Dibs!” You are so in, buddy, and all because you slept in your contacts and your eyeballs were on fucking fire this morning. A boy in glasses is suddenly much more intriguing, and you can and should use your newfound Clark Kent persona to your full advantage. Let the lenses do the work for you.

6. Tame your man-scruff: Clean shaven? Sexy. A little bit of somethin? Really sexy. ZZ Top beard? I don’t even need to say it. Facial hair is your frienemy, and should be treated accordingly. Keep that 5 o’clock shadow at bay and not only will your getting-ready routine be cake, but you’re silently inviting hot girls to touch your face all day (unless you’re break-out prone; see #3!). If you’re one of the lucky few who can pull off a chinstrap or goatee without looking like a cholo or the token “badass” from any of the boy bands of the 90’s, by all means rock that shit out. If you definitely cannot, don’t. Furthermore, if your mantra is “I don’t give a fuck” and you live every day of your life like it’s No Shave November, don’t be surprised when the only girl you find is the one who shares your likeness to Grizzly Adams in at least three areas of her own body. Gross, right? Better break out the Norelco.   

Please, do your fellow bro a solid and pass this list onto him. It’s especially helpful for the incoming college freshman, but let’s not kid ourselves, I know a super senior or four that could use the reminder. And don’t think I’m being sexist here: the ladies have their own list coming so the playing field will be leveled.

Now go forth and summon your inner stud! He’s in there somewhere! Hopefully!