Majoring in political science to prepare you for your future career as First Lady. TSM.

I’d rather be a good liver than have one. TSM.

The only important dates on your May calendar being the Kentucky Derby, senior week and graduation. TSM.

Reserving a private study room in the library with your sisters so no one overhears your gossip. TSM.

It’s vodka, it goes bad once you open it. TSM.

Your little’s best friend asking if you’d be her “secret big.” TSM.

Pregaming your last classes of the semester with white wine on the quad. TSM.

Rotating in shack shirts, because finals week makes you look too shambley to wear letters in public. TSM.

Finding it impossible to study for finals in the library because every three feet there is another sister and another twenty minute catch up session. TSM.

Ke$ha bathing in glitter and owning being a hot mess. TSM.

People knowing which sorority you’re in by the way you talk. TSM.

I spend more money on crafting supplies than I do on food. TSM.

Being told you’re the reason your boy was elected president of IFC. TSM.

Wearing your ex-boyfriend’s letters when you look like shit. TSM.

Being your little’s best role model and worst influence at the same time. TSM.

Being the best dressed date at his formal. TSM.

I like my men like I like my whiskey: strong, straight, and made in the South. TSM.

You and your three best friends being called the “Mean Girls” of your sorority. TSM.

Wearing an America themed outfit to your American History final. TSM.

The “Oh, you’re avoiding intramural kickball, too?” nod to a sister at the bar. TSM.