“We don’t haze. Now, finish your drink.” TSM.

My drinking team has a sorority problem. TSM.

“Sober function” doesn’t apply to me. TSM.

You call it exploitation. I call is raising awareness. TSM.

Being convinced that knee-high boots were invented, so you don’t have to shave your legs. TSM.

Organizing your t-shirts by fraternity. TSM.

Crafting your Halloween costume instead of buying one. TSM.

Knowing exactly which TSM photos will have mean comments from the guys before you click on them. TSM.

Mom and I wearing the same pearls in our composite pictures, 25 years apart. TSM.

Constantly toeing the line between flirting and letting him know he has no chance with you. TSM.

Dancing totally inappropriately to music that was inspired by a struggle you’ll never understand. TSM.

Sisterhood of the traveling fake ID. TSM.

Only wearing pants when you don’t feel like shaving your legs. TSM.

Dancing totally inappropriately to music that was inspired by a struggle you’ll never understand. TSM.

Passionately championing a cause that you don’t understand simply because a girl you despise is on the other side. TSM.

Your mother bringing you through initiation rituals. TSM.

“Calm down. It’s not that serious.” TSM.

Shotgunning a latte because the boutique won’t let you take it inside. TSM.

Judging a hot guy wearing a lower tier sorority’s shirt. TSM.

There is only one perfect little: mine. TSM.