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The Gchat Betrayal

2 Jul

Gchat and I have always been BFF’s. It makes me laugh, it makes me sigh. When people ask me what I do at work, I tell them I Gchat like a boss. But Gchat betrayed me, and I may never look at it the same way again.

You may remember Derek, my “friend” who I may or may not have gone on a date with depending on who you ask. Well, Derek and I still hang out. And for weeks I continued to consciously ignore the building sexual tension that accompanied our trips to chipotle, watching an occasional movie, and my personal favorite – going to a shooting range. This all changed whenever one night, after finishing up a documentary about education reform (very sexy stuff) he kissed me.

Crap. This is what I had been trying to avoid. I like Derek, and I know he likes me more… But I can’t date him, or anyone, at this point because when it comes to relationships I am anything but stable right now. And I care about him too much to just string him along until I figure out what my issues are and possibly royally screw him over.

This is where Gchat comes into play.

The following morning, I log onto my work computer, immediately pull up Gmail (like every other human being in America, this is always my first task), and see who is online. One of my best friends from college is on and immediately I begin my story. I tell her how we were hanging out, he kissed me, and I told him it was a bad idea and that we needed to stop. At this point in the conversation, Derek also messaged me on Gchat (you may see where this is going). Wanting to give my girlfriend some background information on Derek, I copy a link to his facebook page and paste it into the Gchat box.

It was the wrong Gchat box.

But did I stop there? Oh no. In fact, here is, word for word, exactly what I sent to Derek before realizing who I was messaging:


Here’s his facebook… feel free to creep away
he went to ******* college and now works at The ********
I think his job is super sexy
and he himself isn’t unattractive
Oh my god
I’m so sorry
That wasn’t meant to send to you
oh my god
I’m so so sorry

I couldn’t believe I had done that. Gchat had betrayed me. Hadn’t we gone through enough together? Hadn’t I confided all of my secrets to it/friends over the past years? Why had it automatically popped up Derek’s chat box when I was speaking to my other friend??

At this point, my hands were literally shaking as I awaited some form of a response from Derek. My co-workers, who aren’t used to me saying anything more offensive than “damn” were quite shocked to hear me exclaim the F-word for anyone within a 30 foot radius to hear.

Finally, Derek messaged back saying: Well… that was flattering. He claims that it was “cute” and “funny” and that I had nothing to worry about… But obviously I did worry about it. Not only did I humiliate myself, but I also completely reversed any thought in his mind that I wanted to keep things between us as “just friends”.

I know that it could have been worse. I could have insulted him, or given away even more mortifying comments before catching myself. But the point is, this happened. Gchat went rogue. And a week later, I’m terrified to take myself off of the “invisible” status.

Some day, I hope to rekindle the passion and vigor I had used with my favorite messaging system. But I believe our relationship needs to take a step back so we can re-evaluate things. Until then, it looks like I’ll have to do real life things during the day… like work.



In which Tinder drains all of my data in a single weekend

28 May

Tinder is like a can of Pringles… once you pop, the fun don’t stop.

While on our girls getaway this past weekend, someone had the brilliant idea to download SR’s new favorite app. Although it is something I typically would not do in DC for fear of accidentally stumbling upon a co-worker or someone else I knew, Myrtle Beach was an entirely different ballgame. Not only was there no pressure to actually meet any of these bros, but we had ample opportunity to troll the crap out of them. Which is precisely what we did.

(Please note that all of these Tinder screenshots actually did occur this weekend…)

Not only did our Tinder-Endeavors provide hours of hilarious story sharing amongst ourselves, but it also showed us the best and worst of men’s attempts to talk to (or hook up with) a girl online.

There are many types of people that join something like Tinder. I’d say half of them are looking for a random hookup.


Another quarter are actually looking for a casual date true love.

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And the final quarter are being trolls and seeing just how interesting the conversation can get (HELLO, that might be me).

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Bojangles seemed to be a theme for where we “invited” our men to meet up.

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I guess it all depends on what you’re looking for. Personally, I’m looking for entertainment. And luckily, there are plenty of men on Tinder willing to provide just that.

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One of our most interesting revelations is that it takes a good deal of skill to be good at Tinder. You can have a gorgeous #selfie of yourself wearing an American flag bathing suit in front of the Eiffel tower (actually spotted) and yet be unable to carry on little more than a sub-par conversation. In my (granted limited) experience, it’s highly unlikely that your Tinder match, even the ones that are just looking to get some, will want to stick around for more than 10 minutes when you can’t put basic sentences together.

As long as you make it past the initial “swipe”, being clever and ironic are just as essential to your online lover as the ability to flex your biceps. And I thoroughly enjoy a man who can outsmart me – or can at least take a joke and keep up!


Overall, my Tinder weekend has been an enlightening experience. I have considered putting myself on hiatus while back in DC, but I guarantee that whether it’s Tinder, Coffee Meets Bagel, or whatever the next big dating app is, the SR ladies will cover it for you. Worst case scenario, this happens?

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We know you’ve got your own stories, and we desperately want to laugh at them with you. So send them to us on twitter @StopRequestedDC or in the comments below!




When you gotta go… you gotta go!

23 Apr

Warning: This article deals directly with poop. No sugar-coating it, guys.

We all do it. Like… daily. It’s a basic bodily function that we shouldn’t have to be embarrassed about. And yet, we still are… Especially as Women. Nine times out of ten, we’re able to be discreet when it comes to relieving ourselves and yet, we have all been in more than one situation where you can’t help it – you gotta go – but it couldn’t be at a worse time. Here are, in my opinion, the top 5 times you wish you could just


5. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and a particularly heavy lunch at Shake Shack has finally hit you. So you scamper off to the restroom and settle in. But just as you’re about to #LetItGo, you hear the main door swush open. And you’re left in a terrible predicament. You’re the only other person in the bathroom, so obviously you can’t place blame on anyone else. So you wait, and wait, and pray you can hold it in, as the Princess takes her good ol’ time fixing her hair and using the actual dryer instead of paper towels… all the while making a mental note for next time to use the bathroom two floors down so that there’s a much lower chance of someone recognizing you when this happens again…

4. Drunk poops are literally the worst. The happy hour celebration for your co-worker’s promotion that ended in another round of shots means that they will be sneaking up on you, often, over the course of the next 24 hours. You find yourself waiting in line at Starbucks the next morning and suddenly you literally cannot do anything else but think about the nearest public restroom location. You not only lose your place in line, but you become that person who has to beg for the store’s key to their single occupancy bathroom that has clearly not been cleaned in 2 weeks and is likely out of toilet paper.

3. Weddings. And not just as the bride – that’s an entirely different ballgame. I no longer have the opportunity to wear fancy cocktail dresses/gowns to formal events like I did back in school. And God knows I’m not important enough to be invited to Galas in DC (but here’s to hoping!). So I take full advantage of dressing up for weddings. And nothing kills my wedding spirit quite like figuring out how to gracefully take a dump surrounded by college friends and the bride’s grandma, while wearing a dress that is way too tight around the butt and impossible to lift properly in order to sit down.

2. Road trips. I mean do I really need to say more? Speaking as someone who spent the last 3 weekends traveling 4.5 hours to and from my hometown, I can lay claim to how awful it is to be 2 miles past the last rest stop when all of a sudden, you feel the panic of having to go. You see the next rest stop is in 28 miles. 28 MILES??? WAIT… THERE’S AN ACCIDENT UP AHEAD??? Who the hell decided to get in a car crash in the middle of the highway NOW??? It becomes physically painful at that point…

1. 6:19am. Bro’s house. He chose you over Obamacare last night, and things swiftly transitioned from watching a sex scene in Game of Thrones, to your own version of it in bed… But that morning after “borrowing” some of his Listerine, and properly putting the toilet seat down where it should be, you suddenly remember how thin his walls are and the completely inconvenient location of his bathroom – approximately 8 feet from his headboard. At that point all you can do is pray that he is a deep sleeper… or just run for the metro. (We recommend the latter option.)


Is there anything one can do to counteract these embarrassing, inconvenient situations? Well, I do have one solution that I think is hilarious, and yet, somewhat effective (at least for the stinky part). Poo pourri. Watch the commercial, you will die. If nothing else, it’s small and portable – easy to keep in your purse – and keeps you feelin’ like a lady.

Other than that ladies, shit happens. And we gotta deal.





2 Apr

There are a few things I love in life. Some of those things are New Orleans, Chrissy Teigen, wine, and cooking. All 4 of those loves came together beautifully on Saturday when I stumbled upon Chrissy tweeting about wanting to do a #DrunkDinnerParty, where a bunch of psychopaths who are weirdly obsessed with her (read: me) all cook the same meal and tweet about it.

Um, count me in!

I was even MORE excited when the meal Chrissy chose was Jambalaya. HI NOLA! Plus, I had been dying to make jambalaya with the kale and sun dried tomato chicken sausage taking up space in my freezer. Sunday was rainy and lazy, perfect for cooking some warm comfort food. I ventured to the new Trader Joe’s on 14th street first thing Sunday morning (Recommend! I generally shop at Whole Foods, and I was able to find most of what I needed, plus a few extras, for so much cheaper!) for Emeril’s Jambalaya ingredients.

I constantly checked #DrunkDinnerParty and Chrissy’s twitter for updates. A few of my favorite tweets from the day/evening:

There were definitely more, but those are the ones I was sober enough to take screen shots of for the purpose of this post (seriously I got white girl wasted SOLOOOO). Chrissy was planning on starting around 7:30, but I was sleepy, and had a ton to do after dinner, so I decided to get a head start. I opened a bottle of wine and got to work….






Before I knew it, I had finished almost a whole bottle of wine, and SR was a twitter celeb! I was also sweating profusely due to red wine chugging, cooking, and hot sauce in my eyeballs (#oops) (#singlebecause).

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I definitely changed some aspects of the recipe. For example, I skipped the andouille sausage and subbed in my kale sun dried tomato chicken sausage, chicken instead of shrimp, used quinoa instead of rice, added okra, and added some unsalted crushed tomatoes in addition to fresh. The finished product:

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Had I used a bigger pan (my Le Creuset perhaps), I would have definitely made it a little “soupier”. Overall, it was pretty delicious!! Next time I’ll also leave out most of the thyme from Emeril’s “Bayou Blast”, it was way too overpowering, and I definitely tried to hide it with more hot sauce #ThisGirlWasOnFire.

I hope Chrissy does this again! At first I thought it was super delusional and what the fuck I was spending my Sunday night cooking a meal via twitter with other people equally obsessed with Chrissy as I? Still feeling a little delusional about it but HEY, I got an awesome meal, I got red wine drunk on Sunday, a bunch of twitter followers, and Chrissy Teigen retweeted me so basically, 2014 made.

I’ll be back to broing out next week.




After the Fade Away

18 Feb

by Stacie Smack

Some friends and I were recently enjoying some delish food at Ted’s Bulletin on 14. In the midst of my enjoyment, I noticed that seating at the bar directly in my line of vision was a guy I briefly dated last summer, Jason, having dinner with a [male] friend. As soon as I noticed, I started uncontrollably laughing, I tried to hide under the table, and my friends proceeded to discretely turn around [in a very obvious way] to look at him. Similarly, Jason’s friend did a little 360 head spin that lingered too long in my direction. I am confident that it was evident that we were both aware of each other’s presence.

The back story:
We met at Policy not by sucking on each other’s faces. We went on a couple dates before he tried to kiss me – amateur move. He seemed interested and interesting enough – we went on some dates, had some sleepovers, and texted every once in a while. I went abroad for a week, came back, and after some pleasantries about my trip, he blew me off a week later with the classic “I’m really busy and my sister is staying with me” excuse. My response (in classic Stacie fashion) was “well good luck. You know where to find me ;)”, followed by a contact deletion. I never heard from him again. It was a classic case of The Fade Away*.

There’s enough on the topic to know that this is just a way of saying “I’m just not that into you”, but I was still left wondering, in this situation if perhaps I should have gone up to say hi? Or if he should have come over to say hi? I didn’t want to say hi, because my strongest emotion upon seeing him was anger and sadness from feeling rejected. He probably didn’t want to say hi, because we all know that the first thing we think when someone fades us out is that they probably had to go into witness protection and that’s why they stopped texting us. This leads to the question of the post fade away spontaneous run-in: for whom is it more awkward after a fade away? The one who did the fading? Or the one who got faded?

The one who did the fading –
My first instinct is that the one who does the fading has all the power. He/she is the one who gets to make the shot “I’m not interested” under the assumption that the other involved party probably is interested. Power overcomes awkward – Jason should feel good that here’s this girl that HE got to dump.
But upon further over analyzing, it’s perhaps incredibly awkward for him. I mean he now has to face the fact that he can’t go on pretending that I think he moved to Iowa, or that he got hit by a bus. Now, he has to come up with actual believable non-awkward excuses for why he never texted back, “I was really busy” for the last 6 months would not cut it.

The one who gets faded-
As implied above, I felt extremely awkward. I felt powerless. I didn’t have a good explanation as to why he stopped calling, and so the default (as it is with A LOT of women, don’t lie to yourself) is to focus on my insecurities and blame every single one of the things I’ve decided is “wrong” with me. I felt awkward because the first thing I thought he thought when he saw me was “oh there’s that girl, still looking/acting/being the same exact way she was when I decided to end things”.
But, let’s be real. That was probably not his first thought. He probably also turned beet red and felt awkward! Because, here was this perfectly fine girl who he never called again. He hopefully realized that he came off as a coward who was too afraid to tell a girl it’s over so instead went for the disappearing act, not thinking that [YUPie NW + gentrified NE] DC is actually small, and the chances of running into someone you’ve met are pretty high.

Honestly, I’m pretty sure it’s awkward for both people, unless you’re a fairly confident person, in which case very few things are awkward for you. I would like to think that when I become a grown-up, I’ll be able to say hi to people I’ve dated regardless of how things ended. Maybe. Or, I’ll continue to giggle, twirl my hair, fix my make-up and completely ignore him, while trying to make him regret all decisions that led to him never calling me again. Maturity.

If nothing else, listen to my favorite singers and nod your head in agreement:

*Also called sometimes the Fade Out and I’m sure like a trillion other things.

Destroying the Drunk Text

12 Feb

I am in the process of changing any number of lifestyle choices this new year- bad eating habits, netflix binging, overworking, moving on from the past, reading more books… the list goes on and on…

But I have to be honest with myself about something that really, and I mean really, needs to stop.

Drunk Texting.

Ever since I moved to DC, my drunken fingers have become miniature devils attempting to sabotage every floozy suave move I make towards men. This, I know, is not an unusual problem for women. We’ve all been there – it’s just that I happen to be there every time my alcohol intake exceeds 2 rum and cokes and a Heineken.

Drunk texts are occasionally funny, and sometimes even successful. But other times they just leave you feeling like the biggest A-hole in Admo. I have successfully(?) ended romantic interests due to the sheer embarrassment of my drunken texts. And that, dear readers, is why it needs to end.

I shall not sacrifice anymore future endeavors to the fate of my idiotic 1am sonets about meeting up in metro center, or calling one poor soul 8 times and then texting him asking why he hasn’t picked up his phone yet.

What’s a girl to do? The obvious answer is to stop the excessive drinking… but we all know that isn’t gonna happen.

I really have tried to come up with some solutions…

Attempt: Turn the phone off…
Result: Massive fail. Since I just turn it back on after the first margarita.

Attempt: Change all the names of the fellas I like to bother to different emoticons in my phone so I don’t know who I’m really talking to.
Result: Initially, this was a brilliant idea! Until one of the dudes texted me first… I awoke the next morning to a conversation between myself and *Sad face, Finger nail polish, beer glass, police officer, flower, flower, dog* where I was convinced he was a guy who lived in NoMa- when in fact he lives in Shaw – and I spent 40 minutes trying to convince him otherwise. #oops Needless to say, I haven’t heard from him since…

Attempt: Assign a DT (Designated Texter)
Result: I was separated from my group and spent the next 45 minutes in a corner two bars down from the rest of my friends… because I had no way of communicating my location. Anytime I get lost, I get emotional. Emotional drunk? Not pretty…

I’m out of ideas, dear readers. And I’ve decided there’s only one more option… besides self control. Which obviously isn’t a real thing in your 20’s…

I need to download an anti-drunk texting app! But I definitely need your help choosing one. If anyone has ever had success with the following apps, please share in your comments below!

My dignity will thank you.

Designated Dialer

Drunk Text Blocker

Drunk Text Savior

As always, I’m forever open to suggestions to better my weekend experience… #arentweall


These are my confessions…

10 Feb

By Capitol Jill

I’m a little short on inspiration this week, so in lieu of forcing something, I thought I would start this week off with a few confessions.

These are my confessions…

1. I don’t change my sheets every week. Don’t tell my parents, they would come down here and commit me to an asylum. I just don’t see the point! If a lot of people sleep in my bed (i.e. this Saturday waking up with Belle and Anne), I was them, but if its just me, I really don’t see the point. I know. I disgust myself too

2. I had a sex dream last about a guy friend of mine who is gay. What? Can someone psychoanalyze this?

3. I watched Something Borrowed last night and cried my eyes out. It’s so beautiful, and so sad, you know?

4. Sometimes, I eat a laughing cow cheese wedge by itself. No crackers or carrots. So tasty.


 5. I like to sing to myself, narrating my day. Sometimes out loud.

Am I alone, or does anyone shared these quirks? I sometimes think I’m a bit of a freak, but hey, how boring would life be if we were all the same?


Capitol Jill

Love knows no limits

15 Nov

So, confession. I spend hundreds of dollars a month on Uber (since cutting back on the social schedule, this bill has also cut back, MUCH needed relief to my overprotective father’s wallet). Uber is my weakness, and the most stable, reliable relationship in my life currently. I can be in DuPont at 8am, or H Street at 3am, and still, always, without fail, Uber is there to whisk me away.

Not only is the whole process a serious breeze, especially in taxi-problem-ridden DC, you get to ROLL UP IN A BLACK CAR OR SUV. In a town where you never know who is on the other side of those tinted windows, you better believe I act important when I go LITERALLY anywhere in an Uber. (ugh, #ThisTown)

i have ARRIVED

Uber has gotten me out of some pretty sticky (literally) situations, hence the stability of our relationship. Allow me to outline the five best, or worst, moments of our relationship:

5.) The time I spilled a Hurricane on myself

After a particular rowdy night at Little Miss Whiskey’s, I thought it was a good idea to bring my unfinished Hurricane along for my journey home in my purse, the same purse that suffered a horrible fate a few weeks later. Obviously, I was wearing 4 inch wedges and ate shit on H street en route to my Uber, and obviously, the full Hurricane half in my purse half in my hand covered my whole body in a sticky slushy mess. Even still, my Uber driver accepted me with love and clorox wipes to rinse off.

4.) The time I hooked up in the back

Self-explanatory, I was very drunk (duh), and our “two stops” quickly turned to just one. (It was a VERY PG hookup, don’t go thinking I’m that kind of girl)

3.) The time I was stranded at National Harbor

I found myself at The Gaylord during CPAC (honestly, I don’t even know how I got there, but I was with a gaggle of Republicans, clearly I was fine), and then suddenly found myself at 4am VERY READY TO GO HOME, TO VERY NW DC. Uber? PICKED ME UP WITHIN 10 MINUTES, AND 87 DOLLARS LATER I WAS IN BED.

2.) The time I threw up in a $300 purse

I was on a long journey home from H street (I’m sensing a pattern here), it was 90 degrees outside, it was a jerky car ride, I had way too much vodka/gin/wine/fireball/beer etc, and it just happened. I vaguely remember being half asleep, as I often am, and as a fairly regular drunk vomit-er, I knew I had approximately 30 seconds before shit got real. I looked around for a bag, a water bottle, ANYTHING to avoid the $300+ cleaning charge for getting sick in an Uber. I was a girl scout, I knew how to be resourceful, so I used my $300 Tory Burch purse as a trash receptacle until the driver realized what was happening and pulled over. Bless his heart, he didn’t kick me out, and he even tried to help me clean up (I have some pride, I CLEARLY refused). Looking back, it would have PROBABLY made more sense to throw up in the car, as I’m now out my favorite purse.


TRAGIC HORRIBLE THE WORST NIGHT OF MY LIFE. I had a beautiful, perfect burrito from SR’s beloved Sol, and I was headed home from a long night on H street. Again, I was half asleep in the back seat when we pulled up to my house. I hopped out and headed into my kitchen, only to realize……I LEFT MY UNTOUCHED VIRGIN BURRITO IN THE BACKSEAT. I think I cried before curling up, truly alone, in my bed.

So you see, DC, nobody will ever replace my one true love, Uber. SOMEHOW, it’s honestly so unclear how, I was recently informed, my Uber rating is 4.7/5. THEY LOVE ME RIGHT BACK. Uber has been there for me so many times before, and I know they will be there for me again tonight, tomorrow morning, tomorrow night, Sunday morning, and beyond. If you haven’t tried them yet….. never read this blog again try it out, and let me know how it goes. Everybody has at least ONE good Uber story, my life just happens to be one hot mess after another.

PS: Missed connection moment: mystery Uber driver who was lucky enough to eat my burrito, please buy me a new one, it’s been months and I’m still not over it.

I Regressed to 1775 and Found my Inner Femme Sole

29 Oct

This weekend, I went to Colonial Williamsburg to learn accurate facts about this nation’s history, naturally. Most of the things went in one ear and out the other. Most, but not all.

As it turns out, the rules in those times stated that a single woman had the same rights as a man while she was single (fun fact: voting back in those times was not a right, it was a civil duty that if a man failed to fulfill ended in a fine). I am sure that it was not as clear in practice as it was in theory, but at least it was acknowledge that women had the right to own property, a right to her own earnings, and many more. Here’s the kicker: two individuals became one as far as law was concerned in the 18th century, as in a woman lost all her rights to her husband.

The following events take place in R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse. A strapping lad (who was definitely older than the average life expectancy of 1762) led us on a tour of this tres classy establishment. In one of the rooms, he pointed to a map and asked if any of the gentlemen were interested in “land speculation”, and I decided to respond with a confident “of course”. Now, this man had to stay in character, so he said that in his times it was very possible for a woman who has been single for a long, long, long time (his emphasis, not mine) also known as a “Femme Sole” to be interested in land speculation. I obviously accepted this title proudly (and perhaps a just a tiny bit bitterly).

From there, we were lead to a dining room where we were able to sample Mr. Charlton’s coffee and hot cocoa. An older black woman told us her story of living in 1762 Williamsburg as free woman, while we sipped on very rich, dense, delicious hot chocolate. One thing led to another, and somehow I told her that I would not like to be married, given that I like my rights. She was not happy with my response.

“You can’t think like that honey. A beautiful girl like you, you would make such a great ornament to your husband”

“I can be a great ornament to myself”

“Oh well honey, that is selfish!”


“You are shameless”

The look of horror on her face was priceless. She asked me what my dad would think, I  told her that he doesn’t live in Williamsburg, and then she proceeded with her story. As we began getting up to exit the Coffeehouse, this woman pulled me aside, grabbed my face with her hands, looked me in the eyes and repeated her advice “You can’t think like that honey, seriously. You should find a man and get married”.

I obviously am in a position that is NOTHING AT ALL like her character. However, I don’t want to get married. Which led to the following thoughts:

1. When the institution of marriage was established, life expectancy was less than half of what it is today. In other words, when you said “forever” back then, you probably just meant 7 to 12 years.

2. Today, we live for about 80 years.If a marriage lasted the average length of a marriage in Colonial times, our divorce rate would be MUCH smaller.


3. What if a marriage was only good for 10 years (or another limited time period, the 10 is not scientifici)?

4. After those 10 years, you would have to get re-married which would force individuals to stop and think about the status of their relationships.

I don’t think this would necessarily mean more people would choose to not remarry, but don’t you think that it would allow couples to think about what’s working, what isn’t, and what needs work? It would force people to COMMUNICATE!!

This might be a radical suggestion. But as it was pointed out to me, a Femme Sole was a radical kind of woman. And I am here to shake things up.

My Perfect Week

22 Oct

by Stacie Smack

This is the story of my Senior Week (and how my journey to become Barney Stinson began).

I was a bit of a late bloomer: my first kiss and my first “time” happened within weeks of each other, both in the latter half of my college career. I am aware that this is not that uncommon, but I obviously felt like a total freak. It happened while I was abroad, he had an accent, we had a short-lived sexmance (is there really not a word like short-lived romance without the emotional implications but that also isn’t a hook-up without making me sound slutty? Guess not!). I thought: this is it. I am finally a woman.

I will go back to school and finish up college strong. My sexual experience and prowess will emanate from me, I will build some history, and maybe even get into a relationship! It’s going to be amazing.

Except it wasn’t.

I got back to the US, and everything went back to how it was, nunnery style. Until Senior Week. That week after all exams are done, when you are supposed to feel sad about the end of four amazing years and blah blah blah. For me it had a slightly different meaning. This is best told in chronological order.

Night 1: Indian Jason Siegel

My friends and I started the first night of the week by getting dolled up and going into the Big City to go “clubbing”. The place had some ridiculous name like G Lounge. It was my first time using my female prowess [and a lot of tequila] in an assertive manner. The tight skirt, the vodka sodas, and the loud music were all working in my favor. I picked my target, threw a coy smile, and attempted to walk in a straight line. Within 10 minutes, I was sitting on his lap and we were talking about irrelevant things that I definitely wasn’t listening to. He may or may not have been wearing a fedora. I am obviously SO glad none of my friends were there to smack some sense into me and save me from leaving with him (not). But I did leave with him. What a victory. Until he wouldn’t let me sleep on his bed (though at least I was able to cross “couch” off the list). So, I hopped on a cab at around 5am and $65 later, I was home and riding the high of a mediocre bang. What the hell was I thinking?

Night 2: The Baseball Tiger

The second day of graduation festivities ended with an outdoor event in the woods. There was a sexy bonfire, we were double fisting champagne bottles, and there was nothing left to lose. I somehow ended up talking to Him. The All-Star Varsity Athlete on his way to work for ESPN. The one who dated the Volleyball player,that tall leggy blonde who whose ass was the reason Spandex shorts were designed. The one who is too beautiful for me to approach and who would never talk to me – we literally had never spoken to each other before. Conveniently, my tall gorgeous swimmer friend was also there vying for his attention, but I refused to bow down from the challenge. And because all good things happen after 2am, I weaseled my way into his cellphone, and after some flirty texting (which started with him thanking me for champagne and me saying something along the lines of “Anytime. I am very giving”) he laced his shoes back on and walked on over to my dorm. And it was good. At least for the two minutes that he was able to keep it up (and for which he apologized profusely). I would have kept him around but he was too busy chasing after different (cooler and thinner) tail.

Night 3: LaX Bro

This next one, I had been wanting for over a year. He seemed attainable at first. Until I found out he was president of his fraternity and on the Lacrosse team. I guess I have a thing for the ones I can’t have. He was later described to me as “a LaX bro who smoked too much but was kind of smart who also got belligerently drunk too often”. I really just heard “bro” and patted myself on the back. My assertiveness was aided by copious amounts of 99 Peaches and champagne (I encourage all to try it) and the inspirational words of Asher Roth. The whole class had just come back from a night of bowling, and there were kegs waiting for us on the quad. As it generally goes with real love stories, we ran into each other while waiting in line to get Natty Lite. We talked for approximately 4 minutes, ultimately resulting in an agreement to GTFO. We “walked” through the woods, which ended well for me but not so much for my dress with a lace back. Back in my room, he asked me if it was going to be awkward the next day, since we would see each other the next day. Fun fact men: it’s only awkward because YOU make it so.

Night 4: The German Ronaldinho

I never drink beer. Like almost never. But it was our last college Keg night. “Call me maybe” was playing, my girlfriends and I were dancing like true WOO girls, most likely without our shirts on, and I was drinking beer. It was the same 300 people that started college with me doing the same thing we did our first Thursday of school. There wasn’t a lot to look forward to, since I had tackled a couple of the big-ticket items on my wish list. But then I met this skinny, tall, sexy German soccer player who was in the States with an exchange program in some city and was visiting a friend for the night (I think). We danced. We didn’t talk. We left, and I got grass burns on my knees for the first time… romantically outside of his friend’s fraternity. Between the frat and the cafeteria to be precise.  I might actually still have his number. Should I text him?

Night 5: The Dim Witted One

This was the last night, the night before we walked in our cap and gowns. We had our “Last Chance Party” which is hopefully pretty self explanatory. But in case you don’t know, it’s the night where you get drunk and confess your true feelings of love to the crush you’ve had for four years (or for four minutes, the rules are flexible). We were handed readily available ribbons in exchange for a last chance. I managed to lip-lock with Dave, a guy from my Econ class that was maybe 27 and a woodsman from the Rockies with a mysterious air. And then, he said no. No. No sex. Say What? At about 2:30am (when as discussed, all good things happen), an ex Water Polo-er turned Rugby player hands me a ribbon. He nods. I nod back. He winks. I try to wink. There was no cuddling; I had to kick him out after an hour because I just couldn’t tolerate his cigarette breath near my face.

This could either be the lowest point of my college career, or the highest goal achieved.