Cringing as you read your texts from the night before. TSM.

Putting letters on because the pizza delivery guy sounded cute. TSM.

Your outfit is a question. Mine is a statement. TSM.

Liking your little’s new profile pic before you even see what it looks like. TSM.

Instinctively shouting “to win!” when asked “why do you play drinking games?” at a risk management workshop. TSTC.

I’m not going if my big isn’t going. TSM.

Our school has a really high number of fuckboys per capita. TSM.

Knowing your Instagram caption for graduation by sophomore year. TSM.

Standards: “We need to discuss your social media.”
Me: “Is this because I double posted?” TSM.

My planner gives the illusion that I actually have my shit together. TSM.

Telling people your pledge class instead of your graduating class when they ask what year you are. TSM.

Double fisting booze at night, then double fisting Starbucks and water in the morning. TSM.

Crisis: I can’t decide which picture to post to Instagram. TSM.

Having reached both Sephora VIB Rouge and Starbucks Gold Membership. TSM.

A few unexplained bruises after a night out is a sign of a good time. TSM.

I’m assuming my presidential election comes with an Adderall prescription. TSM.

I’m basically Blair Waldorf if you replace the bottles of Dom for $5 bottles of André. TSM.

Passive aggressively “liking” when he posts a pic with another girl. TSM.

Having a fraternity build an elevated surface just for you. TSM.

Never waiting in line for the party. TSM.