Bartenders still referring to you by the name on your old fake. TSM.

I’ve been 21 since I was 18, and I’ll continue to be 21 until I’m 30. TSM.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. NS. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, elevated surface. TSTC.

You can never have too many little black dresses. TSM.

Deciding to rename the fam something more appropriate like the “Let’s Fuck Shit Up Fam.” TSM.

Judging other girls by the letters on their shack shirts. TSM.

“I know everyone.” TSM.

“I deserved a t-shirt for that weekend.” TSM.

Being the sister standards warns the pledges about. TSM.

Sisterhood of the traveling wine bottle opener. TSM.

Random guys saying “nice work” to the boy walking you home. TSM.

Be a Samantha in this world of Charlottes. TSM.

Having battle scars from dancing on elevated surfaces. TSM.

Having your “50 Shades Of Grey” movie night planned out already. TSM.

Bows before bros. TSM.

Judging freshmen who say they’re not going to rush, only to judge them harder later if they say they are. TSM.

Using functions as an excuse to hoard anything that could potentially be used as a costume. TSM.

It’s not that I’m terribly optimistic. I just genuinely believe that the rules don’t apply to me. TSM.

True sisterhood: passing out on a porch holding hands after a long day of drinking. TSM.

My heart doesn’t care about him. My mind is mad at him. My body just wants to do him. TSM.