Feeling accomplished when your mother starts complimenting your cooking. TSM.

Your phone auto-correcting “monogamy” to “monograms,” because only one of those things is relevant to your life. TSM.

Planning “TSM breaks” into your studying. TSM.

Hooking up with the t-shirt chair of a fraternity because, well, he’s the t-shirt chair. Duh. TSM.

Successfully tricking the whole new pledge class into believing they didn’t get their number one big. TSM.

“Good luck, and don’t fuck it up.” TSM.

Knowing someone on every corner of campus. TSM.

Joining a bottom tier sorority. Graduating from a top tier sorority. TSM.

“Her brows are so on point.” TSM.

Rediscovering old jewelry and struggling to remember which boy gave it to you. TSM.

Sometimes, I just want to punch drunk me in the face. TSM.

Everyone knowing you got the big you wanted based off the volume of your scream. TSM.

The anxiety you get when you’re waiting to become a big. TSM.

Remembering just enough of the night to know you’ll be getting called to standards. TSM.

Always being the best dressed at themed events. TSM.

“Oh my God, same.” TSM.

Counting down to your 21st birthday the minute you turn 20. TSM.

The number of times I’ve used a guy because his bed was closer than mine is both epic and appalling. TSM.

Sisterhood is forever. So is mod podge. TSM.

I’ve begun using shot glasses as my contact containers if you want to make conducting the Hot Mess Express a competition. TSTC.