Jennifer

We at UT celebrate Halloween Saturday night. Triple Trouble and Dirk dressed as The Village People. My outfit featured a hard hat and a talking toolbelt, among other things. We showed up thirty minutes early to Dirk's frat and harrassed all the pledges. My favorite pledges of the night included the lion from The Wizard of Oz, the human bar (who had a fully stocked wooden bar encircling his waist and matched shots with you), and Waldo (who made it his duty to appear in every photo.)

We hire a company called TOPs (Take Our Picture) to photograph these fratastic events. I am in pretty much as many pictures as Waldo. I don't remember much of what I did, but apparently I danced quite a bit. I do vividly remember at one point this creep groped me, and I hit him in the mouth with my inflatable microphone. Rumor has it he does this type of thing to everyone, but whatfuckingever, don't TOUCH me. I am VERY protective of my body and, for the most part, extremely modest.

Twenty-seven jello shots later I decided it would be a good idea to take a nap on one of the glow-in-the-dark benches behind the stage. I awoke to my bestie Lux screaming that I had to help her get our friend Marie off of the second Musketeer who is waaay fat and just un-cute. (I won't lie; when Marie gets drunk she's quite the tart and we frequently have to stop her from having unprotected sex with fuglies.) We found her literally on top of the guy. They had backed up in a corner, making out like monkeys. I don't think monkeys make out, but if they did that's what it would have looked like.

We pulled her off of him (who, despite his sense of huomr, ranks probably as a 2 on the hotness scale). I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, informing her that she was making a mistake and to stop at once.

She ended up in his bedroom. I started crying at this point. I'm not sure why. I think I might have been groped again, and this upset me. I passed out on one of the frat couches in the living room a little after 5am. I woke up the next morning only to find a Blues Brother, a pumpkin, and the human bar all passed out cold in the same room as me.

I won't get into why, but last week and this weekend were just one terrible Sex And The City episode for the ladies who call themselves Triple Trouble (me, Lux, + Marie). Actually it's more like No Sex And The city, because seriously none of us have had sex in five days, and we're pretty fucking pissed.

This disaster of a weekend ultimately culminated with me eating pancakes all Sunday and refusing to go outside.

Triple Trouble and the pseudo-boyfriend Dirk partied hard. (Not my pseudo-boyfriend, mind you, as I'm the perpetually single one because the only guys who want to date me are the kind that collect knives and have entire corners fo their rooms dedicated to the Civil War, more on the people that want to date me later.)

We were sipping on everclear, as usual, and I didn't get who I wanted, as usual. He wails on guitar and has soft brown eyes that hide behind wavy hair. When he spaeks it sounds like he's telling you his secrets, even when he's just saying something tpical, like talking about what drugs he is on. He's terribly hard to get a hold of, as he sleeps all day and at night usually gets too fucked up to answer his phone. Anyway, I cornered him at a parentless Parents' Weekend party and began a "let's-hook-up" conversation. (I'm not kidding. I'm very direct about these things.)

He didn't seem to be listening, then he collasped on the floor. Not sure what to do, I shrugged and just kindof walked away and pretened to asnwer my phone. He later passed out on a couch, tripping pretty hard on acid. Somehow I felt like the situation had hope. (What? I'd been drinking everclear.) I tackled him and demanded that the stop tripping and come make out with me. I guess I figured that if I yelled enough the acid would work its way out of his system faster.

This did not work.

Naturally, the yelling escalated into an all-out tantrum and apparently I threatened to (and I quote) "beat the shit" out of him. I love drunk me and my empty threats. I've never hit anyone in my life. (Except Lux but she deserved it.) I stormed out of the party without him. The rest of the night is another story altogether, one involving crying, three republicans, and a tall stack of pancaked in a to-go box.

Last weekend I found some slutty freshmen girl's wallet on the floor a frat's kitchen. It was silver with pink sparkles. I bet she was giving head when it fell out of her Prada purse. Although I generally avoid giving head in kitchens, I can relate to the horror and inconvenience of losing important belongings while partying. As it turns out, I happened to know the girl through a couple of friends, so returning it wasn't a huge problem for me.

Yesterday I found myself trudging through one of the freshmen dorms to drop it off in her room. (How I ended up bringing the wallet to her rather than her coming to me is still a somewhat baffling, degrading occurence.) On the elevator up to one of the co-ed floors, some fugly sleaze with gelled hair I used to have art history with turned to me, stared me up and down, eyes lingering on the Greek letters plastered to my chest, and finally commented, "I didn't know you lived here."

JESUS CHRIST AS IF I WOULD EVER LIVE IN THAT DORM, ESPECIALLY AS A SOPHOMORE! I didn't recognize him at first. His acne was flaring up more than usual, and, more importantly, I just wasn't expecting to see someone I knew (especially another sophomore) in a predominately freshmen dorm.

I didn't feel like explaining the slutty girl lost wallet story that brought me to the dorm. Besides, he'd already thoroughly annoyed me with both his sleaziness and his assumption that I would live at such a place. Thus, I took a moment to conjure the perfect lie to shut him up.

My lips parted and in a voice cold enough to freeze his hair gel I explained, "Oh, I don't live here. I'm just sleeping with someone who does."

The elevator grew silent until a polite "ding" announced my departure. The doors opened. I didn't say good-bye.

Everyone always complains about Mondays, but, if you ask me, Tuesdays are pretty sucky too. In the spirit of suckiness, I've decided to define the different types of sucky men that I have slept with.

Just kidding, I don't sleep with sucky men. And if I did, I wouldn't admit to it. You see, cussing can be a really effective and artful, but so many people fuck it up. Here's an insult guide that I wrote:

Jackass A jackass desperately craves attention. He will do the worm at chill parties when everyone else is smoking a hookah. He will have prolonged conversations with people he shouldn't even be talking to, like your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend or the person you secretly hooked up with at that party who NO ONE was supposed to know about but somehow the jackass found out about. He thinks it's funny to do an impersonation of someone when the person is in the room. Commonly referred to as immature and awkward, he is the first to write on your face when you pass out.

Asshole This is one of the most overused insults. Let's clarify just what an asshole is-- A person who genuinely enjoys pissing off other people. A close cousin to Satan, the asshole delights in evil. He will you tell you he likes "messing with people." By this he means he likes to inflict pain upon the innocent. An asshole will go out of his way to make a girl cry. Later he will brag about this alleged accomplishment. The typical asshole has a sidekick, often the frighteningly skinny type who doesn't talk. If this person is a girl then the asshole will insist on constant sex in degarding locations, such as a bathroom stall. Assholes have no soul. Superheroes kill assholes.

Douche The douche overreacts to everything, especially jokes. He talks about his car a lot. He pretends to know a lot about, well, about everything. He doesn't have any close friends because no one really likes him except his mom. But no one really hates him either. Douches don't get jokes or sarcasm. Douches make stellar boyfriends because you can walk all over them. They are suckers. They also are the kind that will help you fix your flat tire or carry your groceries for you. They're pretty nice but inexcusably lame. Lots of frat guys are douches.

Smartass The smartass always has a clever put-down waiting. The humor of the smartass is at your expense. Contrary to popular belief, the smartass isn't not the guy who sits in the back of class yelling obviously wrong answers during a lecture. This guy is just an ass, maybe a jackass. A smartass catches you off guard. Here's a prime example of a smartass in action-- A girl sits in class making a grocery list including the following: milk, bread, ketchup, condoms, whiskey, drugs. If the smartass sees her list, he'll coolly ask, "Do you need eggs, too?" The next day he'll ask her how shopping was. (And no, this did not happen to me. I'd never have whiskey on a grocery list.) Smartasses don't laugh at their own jokes. Their sarcasm stings. Their voice possesses a quiet, acrid quality. They are great in arguments and debates.

Candyass The candyass is dangerously close to the douche in definition. Candyasses are socially awkward but usually pretty attractive. They agree with most everything. They continue their high school relationships in college. However, he is easy to seduce. The candyass, like the douche, also has a hard time getting jokes. He is not smooth either. Unlike the douche though, he is often well-liked and has many friends. He tries to make peace with everyone. It is very easy to make a candyass uncomfortable. Smartasses frequently do this.

Punkass Pretty much any annoying person younger or way less mature than you is a punkass. Most likely he is an alternative-type highschooler with lots of angst. He wants to be a jackass, but he's too angry at the world to get there. A punkass never has money. He steals things from you. He yells at pedestrians from the backseat window of his friend's Honda accord. Late at night he puts your Christmas lawn ornaments in obscene positions. He yells at his mom and calls everything in his entire life 'gay' and 'not fair.'

Prick This insult obviously originates in reference to those poorly-endowed. The idea is that the prick is bitter about this and thus lashes out at other people. Actually, a prick can be bitter about anything. Short guys are commonly pricks. Pricks never tip well. They yell and scream if you bump their cars, even if you don't do damage. They never give to charity. They sneer at homeless children. They usually wear suits, but have lame jobs. A prick cuts you off in traffic because he is angry about his receding hairline. Never buy drugs from a prick. He will rip you off.

Many more categories of vile men exist, but this is all for now. Most readers never make it past the second paragraph anyway.

In case you have been living under a rock, last weekend was the Red River Shootout (Well now they call it Red River Rivalry. I guess they felt like the other name advocated violence? I love politically incorrect things.) UT played OU in Dallas, a football tradition dating back for a hundred years. Another rather recent addition to the tradition is caravanning up to Dallas in frats' chartered buses. Their dates buy them large coolers and paint them with phrases like "Texas fight!" and "Hook 'em Horns!" with orange and white paint pens. Some of these girls get really into it, even gluing bottle caps and wooden letters to the cooler. Some girls don't give a shit and just scribble "Get drunk!" on the lid (or maybe that was just me). The whole group stays in a hotel Friday and goes to the game Saturday morning in boots and burnt orange everything. That night they have a private bar tab downtown. The whole experience is called "Going to OU" which makes no sense as we're going to Dallas, not fucking Oklahoma. God, why would anyone go to Oklahoma? Just kidding, Oklahoma is cool.

I don't know why I ever agreed to go to OU with Chaz. He's a friend of my friend George. George begged me to go with the guy. It seemed like a decent idea to me at the time. I think I was high. (Note to self: stop making decisions when high.) Chaz is probably the most unattractive person I've actually hung out with in that last four months, easily. And it wasn't just the unattractiveness. I mean, the guy blares mainstream rap music and drives a truck and has a BUZZED HAIRCUT. How can you even get into a frat with hair like his? Isn't shaggy hair a prerequisite? Sometimes I really think I'm losing faith in the frats of today. I should've known I'd have a few issues with him just from the terrible country music + truck description. I always butt heads with people like that. (Actually, I butt heads with a lot of people, all sorts of people. More on that later.)

It is also tradition for everyone to get raging drunk on the liquor and beer from the some fifty coolers lining the aisle. (I assume bus-drivers are bribed because this is definitely some sort of hazard.) By the end of the ride I had put away at least a dozen jello shots (hey, they weren't that strong, and I was hungry) and refilled my flask with everclear. All I remember is rambling to my date about how my hands are so huge (they are) and him comparing his hand to mine. His was smaller. (I'm telling you, my hands are fucking monstrous.) This led to a conversation about feet size equally penis size. I got really uncomfortable, as his hand periodically found its way to my thigh. I think George told him I'm a slut. I'm much too picky and conniving to be a slut. I didn't really know how to end the awkward conversation and thigh touching, so I told him I felt sick and needed to vomit. This shut him up real quick, and I scampered away. (If you ever want to shut up a guy either make out with him or tell him you're going to vomit. The latter is best when you'd also like to leave his presence.)

The next morning the bus left at 10:30AM. I woke up at 10:15. I was vomiting by 10:20. But I got my shit together because our seats were 12th row on the 30-yard line. I almost felt guilty having such kickass seats, as I don't understand/care about football too much. I still cheer "Give 'em Hell, give 'em Hell! OU sucks!" And I wear my burnt orange kitten heels, but the concept of twenty-two guys tackling each other over some oddly shaped ball doesn't exactly enthrall me. The game did prove pretty intense; at some points even I was entertained. We won I think 42 to 14. I might be wrong about that score... apologies to any football fans out there. This win proves especially significant because UT has lost to OU for the past five years. I was so happy/drunk that I almost forgot my date was a complete douche.

We light up the university tower orange every win.

I suppose I should begin with an introduction. Introductions are always awkward, aren't they? I'm a sophomore journalism major at the University of Texas at Austin. I drink like a fish and curse like a sailor. I'm a sorority girl-- a sorostitute, as some call us. I'm not quite a sorostitute though. I don't fit the description perfectly. What is the description? Well, the classic sorostitute prances to class in designer jeans, a frat pocket t-shirt, and Rainbows. She gets her hair highlighted in an expensive salon, but never dramatic, streaky highlights. A sorostitute never looks trashy. Oh no. Pearls around the neck, diamonds in the ears. She dates rich fratdaddies from old money. Her purse costs more than some people's cars. On the weekends she goes to various frat houses ("frats around") in a shiny shirt with tiny straps, dark jeans, and pointy-toed heels. Her lips are perpetually glossed and her hair perpetually straightened. She loves her dad and the Republican party.

This is the stereotype though, and many exceptions exist. I am one of these exceptions. I admit I have my share of shiny shirts and designer jeans, and maybe I have natural-looking highlights. However, I am a flaming liberal and drink most of my sisters under the table. I never go anywhere without my engraved silver flask. I usually stock it with everclear, which I began watering down after my bestie's doctor told her the firewater had partially eroded her stomach lining. My besties are pretty fucking crazy. The three of us-- me, Marie, and Lux call ourselves Triple Trouble (yes, kindof like the Beastie Boys). Originally Marie acted as the sober voice of reason and kept Lux and me out of trouble. Recently she broke up with her boyfriend and started drinking heavily again. Now no one keeps us in line. Join us as we spiral out of control living out our motto of "drinking, shacking, and never looking backing." Wait... is that right? Sorry, I'm already five jello shots into my afternoon.