HEELS
I am convinced that I would never have to"walk of shame" without the invention of slut shoes. Many modern college girls know what I am talking about. When packing up to go off to college every incoming freshman realizes that they are not prepared for their first Fraternity party because they don't have a pair of rocking, 7-inch Steve Madden slut shoes. They are tall, shiny and painful, but you love them nonetheless. It is almost like all of the joy you have ever taken from rebelling against your parents has been crammed into two, size 7 beauties. So you go out (broaching 6 feet tall), you meet a guy and you humor him. You talk for a while, listen to him brag about his shore house and then the foot cramps start. You can't take off these beautiful miracles of nature because then you are the Freshman girl who can't handle heels. Twenty minutes later, the Frat guy has moved on to the prestigious private school he went to and your toes have begun to turn a deep purple. It, at this point, becomes abundantly clear that you are not walking the mile back to your dorm. So when this guy tells you he has a fish tank in his room, you pretend to be interested in the hope of a chair. Then one thing inevitably leads to another and you are stomping through a Saturday morning tour group full of judgmental stares wearing a black body con dress, a Prep sweatshirt, carrying your treasured slut shoes.
BOYS
The boys, I would hope, is an obvious connection. It is the truest common denominator between all horrific, college, TSM stories. After careful examination and years of field work I have come to one key conclusion:
Boys are not complicated.
They really aren't. Girls try and try to make the male race into something it isn't. Boys aren't laying in bed thinking about falling in love, or buying their house. Spoiler Alert: they are watching porn. At any moment, most men are thinking about one of three things: sex, food or competition. They hold the incredibly useful ability to only think about the most primal of desires. Even though I am at the deepest level of understanding when it comes to this concept, past 11 pm I can't seem to remember it. It is like I have suffered from some sort of amnesia which has caused me to become the worst of monsters: Rom Com Girl. Yep, you heard me, I become the girl that confuses You've Got Mail with reality. This is the essence of my 11 pm downfall and only the start of where my problems begin.
ALCOHOL
Jaime Foxx is the true college philosopher. He, in his unparalleled insight, knew that sometimes you just really need to "blame it on the alcohol (baby.)" There are nights were a certain girl (ahem) goes out with the intention of making a huge mistake. In these desperate moments, this girl understands that she should not text her ex-boyfriend, and she should not make out with her TA, but she just can't help herself. The next morning, after recalling her events, it becomes apparent that she needs an out. She needs an excuse for the borderline inexcusable actions she had committed. This is where alcohol comes in. In all honesty, about only one-half of the time a girl says "I feel so bad, I was just soooo drunk" she is lying. She wasn't drunk enough not to realize that the boy she was making-out with was your ex-boyfriend, but she was drunk enough not to care.
The combination of these three vices are my kryptonite. The true trifecta of destruction. I feel that this disclosure, in some universe, acts as a warning. When I say, "there are boys, booze and I look great tonight" politely place me a locked cage with water (and crackers please) because I am about to morph into a Rom Com, slutty monster.
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