Worst Place to Wake Up: Phi Delt

It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. You were gin drunk and just knew that if you didn’t have a sleepover at Barney the Dog’s house you would literally die. Things look different in the cold light of morning. You slept with your contacts in and are wearing a leopard trimmed cocktail dress. Yes you chose this little number post pre–game but still, why do you own it in the first place? Do you escape barefoot or slip back into your stilettos that were already out for blood last night? Where are those heels, anyhow? What time is it? 9:50a.m. Friday morning. “The only way out is through,” you remind yourself as you stare down the front door. Locust Walk looks like a Los Angeles highway and you, the newest Cheetah Girl, make a mad dash through it, saying silent prayers until you reach the Quad. In the process, you run into your Spanish partner who you told you were deathly ill, your Econ TA you have a crush on and even the DP guy who you accept a paper from as penance. Don’t try this one at home, kids.


Worst Place to Get a Spontaneous Boner: In a Meeting with your Thesis Advisor

If you were to ask someone who is attracted to men if Matt Levendusky is attractive, they’d probably say yes. But I’m not attracted to men. And as excited as I am to talk about my thesis, congressional politics and high school–level statistics, I wouldn’t say I’m particularly aroused by those things. But it happened anyway.

I got a boner in front of my thesis advisor.

I needed to stall; it was one of those weird warm winter days where I could wear shorts, and I absolutely could not stand up at that moment. The topic of conversation switched to my going to a Bruce Springsteen concert, which, given my fanaticism, absolutely did not help things. Then we talked about a trip Levendusky took to New York, which meant talking about Hamilton and pizza, which also didn’t help. Eventually, things died down, but I still feel like a bar mitzvah boy at our weekly thesis meeting.


Worst Place to Realize You Don’t Have Cash: In Line at Metro

It's 12p.m. on Sunday and you've finally made it out of bed with only one thing on your pounding mind: coffee. You've entered the establishment and passed the guy you used to hook up with sitting across from his new girlfriend as well as that group of sorority girls who can't even finish a bagel. You've endured awkwardly standing at the back of the line, dodging people going to the bathroom, the barista delivering coffee and the fridge door. Now there's only one person in front of you and they've already ordered, so it should only be another half hour before you can get your latte. But oh shit. No cash. You're either ordering five coffees, a huge bag of granola, some weird tofu salad, or an $8 coffee that will take 10 years to arrive. Sorry!


Worst Coven of Fuckbois: Pottruck Smoothie Bros

They can strike at any time. Sometimes you hear them before you even have a chance to prepare yourself: “I’ll have that with an extra scoop of protein.” You turn around. There are five of them. As expected, they’re all wearing either their frat’s fling tank from ’08 or a LeBron James high school jersey. It seems as if they cycle their wardrobe amongst one another. You eavesdrop a bit. You hear one of them complain about how he “smashed that beat freshman chick last weekend but should’ve just settled for head.” You feel his pain. This species belongs to the breed of bro that pretends to not give a fuck about anything, yet spends a good hour or two agonizing over a caption every time they update their cover photo. One second they say hello to you and ask how your day is going, and before you know it they’re asking for nudes. Don’t fall prey to the biceps. You have been warned.


Worst Thing to Leave at a Hookups House: Your Sticky Boobs

As if the magnificent pieces of anatomy known as "boobs" (or "titties" by people who seldom experience them) were not great enough a source of male confusion on their own, they often come guarded by a treacherous obstacle known as the "bra." It seems a Godsend when, drunk, confused and sweating after formal, he doesn’t have to face the emasculation of the quest for and disarming of a clasp, because your "sticky boobs" fall right off. But then, the morning after, once you’ve quietly snuck out of his room, put your heels on outside the door and stumbled home, you realize you didn’t pick up your sticky boobs from the floor and that, a few hours from now, he will. Sticky boobs are a fashion necessity, but once they entail facing the boy you just fucked and pulling male chest hairs out of the tape (because you know he’s going to try it on) you’d rather just spend the $60 on another pair.


Worst Conditions to Walk of Shame In: Extreme Weather In Heels

It’d be a lot easier to treat leaving Hill at 10a.m. on a Sunday in a body con dress with lipstick smeared on your face if it wasn’t thunder storming, sleeting, raining spaghetti and the possibility of a zombie apocalypse wasn’t looming. So go forth young one, trip and limp in those stilettos you borrowed from your roommate that are a half size too big and keep slipping off your foot and getting stuck in the locust bricks. The Smirnoff ices you downed last night are nothing compared to the black ice you’re about to slip on stomach first and go sliding upon like a little baby cartoon penguin. Wait wasn’t it sunny and 72 yesterday? Is that an earthquake? Why is it snowing? It’s because Philly weather doesn’t give a shit about you. Not one single tiny turd. Our tip? Go for a barefoot sprint and deal with the frostbite at home. Godspeed, you hobbling mess, godspeed. 


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