I’m a senior, business major, athletics director of my fraternity. Like most of you, I’m home for the summer waiting tables until I can start putting those student loans to good use again. Doubled interest rates means I only have to be half as interested in class, #AMIRITE. Anyways, a few days ago a good lady friend, Mary*, decided to have a house party, parents out of town and such. She texts me and one of my brothers, so we decide to stop by. It’s a Wednesday night, not much else going on. Besides, my bootycall hasn’t been responding lately, fucking Cara.
I convince my boy Bobby to come with, seen as how I don’t actually know more than one person who will be there. When we arrive, I’m greeted by Mary’s younger sister, a sophomore at a nearby college sporting a boyishly short haircut countered only by a tank top that leaves very little of those C-cups to the imagination, named Stella. I’m led inside to a kitchen filled with eight girls ranging, on a scale of 1-10, from 3’s to 6’s, and by 6’s I mean 3’s. They’re all 3’s. Aside from a tight blonde weighing no more than 90lbs who is soon revealed to be 17 years old. Sigh. This revelation comes courtesy of her brother, supposedly a junior at my university in my major who has apparently managed to make it three years in college under the impression that Hollister graphic designed polo’s and cargo shorts are not only acceptable with spiked hair and a puka shell necklace, they are encouraged. I digress.
After weighing the options of bailing/going to bed early vs. drowning my disappointment in a solo cup of vodka, I pour myself a glass. I verify with Bobby that none of the girls at the party are acceptable, and continue to drink until they are.
A full solo cup of vodka later I’m teaching the veritable Rafter (google it) around me how to play “F*ck You Pyramid.” A little while later, once everyone is sufficiently drunk and enjoying the evening by debating the future of GoT, Stella makes her move.
As I’m maneuvering the party with one eye half open, she guides me to her side on the couch and holds my head against her tits. Chelsea, a very plain art major notices and begins to lead me away from the tit pillows with spoilers about season 4 of Game of Thrones. As she spins some sort of historical analogy between real history and GoT history, I finally decide that she is in fact not attractive enough even when I’m mouth-breathing drunk. I look around for an out, but Bobby is chatting up the 17 year old. Sigh. Before I can refocus on Chelsea long enough to decipher her language of choice as english, Stella swoops in like a heavy-head looking for a towel. As she darts in and out like a hungry hungry hippo trying to make contact with my mouth, I dodge, dip, dive, duck, and dodge long enough to find myself next to Tracy, the ROTC girl from the west coast. All 195lbs of her. Before she can trap me with her desperation, I decide to find a place to pass out in the basement. She follows. I disregard. Thankfully my fraternity brother sees whats going on, leads me outside, puts a bowl in my hands, and we relax.
I told you that, so I could tell you this.
This must be what women feel like. Being constantly berated by an onslaught of betas and bitches. It’s exhausting. And the hardest part was not that I had ugly chickens grabbing at my turkey baster. I’m not gonna act like I haven’t plowed an uggo because I was bored/drunk/horny. Check the scar on my knee and my car’s suspension — neither will ever be the same. And besides, I probably wouldn’t see these girls again ever in my life, and even if I did, no one would care. Maybe I’d catch some heat from my friends and then the world would keep turning. As my boss says, “F*ck ugly, f*ck year ’round.”
But still… I knew that I was better than these girls. I knew that as easy as it was to get a yogurt stand, I didn’t want what they were selling. And it was $Free.99
The reality is that those girls could have told me the funniest jokes, the dirtiest fantasies and the most delicious recipes, but they were physically below me. And I assume that this is how women must feel sometimes (obviously not about me because, let’s be real, my poultry analogies are irresistible. and don’t get me started on nut jokes). That even though you think you’re spitting the hottest fire, the sickest game, the crispiest lines… you may not visually have what it takes. And if that human being who’s so inebriated that they are barely able to make vowel sounds STILL doesn’t want you, know when to cut your losses. If you didn’t measure up last night, reassess yourself. Take the rest of your summer to commit. Do whatever you need to do to improve yourself, be it gym, tan, or laundry. And make sure to get ready for next season’s episodes. They’re gonna be wildfire.
*Names have been changed so my friends won’t know what a dick I am.