To the realest fraternity out there: ain’t got no chapter house, ain’t got no endowment. Broke Phi Broke, they ain’t got it.
To the Beta sophomore who tried to get in my pants with the Disney sing–along in his room: Hakuna Matata can only get you so far in life.
To the security guards at Van Pelt: if I just ran by without opening my bag, would you chase me? C’mon, be honest.
To all the drag queen enthusiasts: let’s have a GBM! Monday at 9:30 in JMHH 225? Free Allegro pizza with the sausage tucked under the cheese!
To Sigma Kappa: stop pulling your fire alarm. We know you’re not hot.
To all Whartonites: please stop running up and down the escalators. I’m sure you can spare 20 seconds of your self indugence. Love, A Philosophy Major.
To the guy who stole my cat jack–o–lantern: you thought your plan was purr–fect, but I cat you on camera, so bring it back right meow.
To the bartender at Harvest who said that it gets wild there every night: you’re cute when you’re wrong.
To the guy at CVS who keeps asking if I have my extracare card: I don’t. And I never will just to spite you.
To the doctoral student who jumped out of the bushes outside Van Pelt to ask me to dinner: restraining order, party of one?
To McDonald’s Chicken Nuggets: I blame you for my future hypertension.
To the boy who whispered I wanna lick Nutella off your ass in my ear: what a perfect moment to learn you can’t have it all.
To Qdoba: your three cheese queso sauce is the wind beneath (between) my wings (ass cheeks).
To that wonderful girl who sends me a poem every day: let’s go to Iceland together.
To the Uber driver who gave me advice on my lovelife: HE STILL DIDN’T TEXT ME BACK.
To my crush in PiKapp: I may not be that funny or athletic or good looking or smart or talented… I forgot where I was going with this…
To my stingy date: you can save a lot of money on pants by not wearing them.
To the Theta who was trying to figure out how many grams of coke her Tiffany’s bracelet is worth: well I guess that’s the joke.
To Penn Cheerleaders: thank you for breaking stereotypes!!!!! (about cheerleaders being hot)
To my physics lab 102 lab TA: Ooo what’s the cologne you’re wearing? Pure Ass by Calvin Klein? No it can’t be, because I know Calvin’s butthole couldn’t smell that bad.
To the Theta that covered herself in orange paint: orange is clearly not the new black…
To every girl at Penn: your ass looks like cottage cheese in a trash bag.
To Gary: you are the most kind person I’ve ever met and you always brighten my day. The Radian is truly lucky to have you as an employee.
To the girl I was eating out that almost crushed my head between her thighs when she came: that’s the last time I go out with someone I met at a squat rack.
To my last college paper: you are the only thing standing in the way of my first kitten.
To the eager frosh who judaized Butcher/Speakman with bagels on all the doorknobs: you had me until you slid that gefilte fish under my door.
To my hot architecture professor: sometimes I wish I were a column so you would hug me.
To a certain Ancient History professor who always wears Hawaiian shirts: Mahalo!
To the geology major who successfully convinced three Penn cops that the music from his house party was actually a seismic event: ROCK ON!
To the guy who rides the scooter with the wheels that light up: did you lose your sneakers that light up?
To Ashton Kutcher: hey FUCK YOU MAN! You think you can just NOT show up to speak? At PENN no less?? Who do you think you are?! I oughta… wait, what’s that? Oh, so he did show up. Eh, whatever. I have season 4 of That ’70s Show on DVD. I’m good.
To the Glee Club: a Latte of your puns sucked more than a poopy flavored espresso. Fuck you.
To Commons: please teach my boyfriend your ways. You put in no effort and yet I always feel like I’ve been totally fucked.
To the professor who referred to a girl in class as a “Gothic Delight”: is that even legal?
To 34th Street: I hope this doesn’t even make it into your stupid fucking magazine.
To the hot dude from Barcelona: thleep with me?
To the bathroom tub that I was dropped in: I may have been unconscious, but thanks for a great birthday.
To the poopy monster of third floor VP: I know who you are and I respect your work.
To my freshman year roommate: my 2 year old cousin called and she wants her easy bake oven back.
To the Excelano Project: if I hear one more poem about how you are starting to hate the process of writing, I am going to get META tatted on my fist and hit you in the face with it. This is not a metaphor.
To my ex–hook up that told me I need to learn how to have more fun: please elaborate on that as I open ANOTHER snapchat of you alone on a ferris wheel.
To the gorilla at the gym who slams his weights around: you are the missing link and you belong in the Penn Museum.
To the fucking leaves falling off the fucking trees: stop fucking falling.
To Red Sox fans: you’re still angry little people from a terrible city.
To Castle: thanks for the world’s longest guessing game of “Gay… or European?”
To the girl who keeps staring at me in Geology recitation: the guy to your left is cuter.
To my slug: all my sluglove.
Look out for Worst of Shoutouts at 2!
