Ripping off a piece of my Women’s Studies exam to blot my lip gloss. TSM.

That look a guy gives you the moment he realizes you’re too good for him. TSM.

Personal shoppers. TSM.

It’s not the grades you make, it’s the orgasms you fake. TSM.

“Omg no, you’re soooo much prettier.” TSM.

Don’t call me a bitch. I prefer the term “Alpha Female.” TSM.

Being able to tell which of my classes is most boring by counting the number of anchors doodled in the margins. TSM.

If I don’t get a shack-shirt with a frocket, I’m not making you a sandwich. TSM.

“Physics.” The folder on my computer where I store all of my wedding plans, including my half of the guest list and vendor options. TSM.

I was appointed the role of Erin Andrews for a group project presentation and skit tomorrow in class. At least the geeds in my group got something right. TSM.

I would never hyphenate my last name after getting married. That would create one messed up monogram. TSM.

Giving the little girl with a bow in her hair and pearl earrings in my 1st grade practicum an A even though she missed every question. TSM.

My little is dating my fratdaddy’s little. TSM.

“A woman’s real happiness and real fulfillment come from within the home with her husband and children” -Nancy Reagan. TSM.

Using an empty bottle of Andre as a rolling pin on the homemade pie I’m making. TSM.

My door, phone, gym locker, and bank account all unlock with the same four digits: the year we were founded. TSM.

My lifestyle is all-American, my friends are all Greek, and my wax is Brazilian. I’m very multicultural. TSM.

Skinny Tuesday. TSM.

Finishing a bottle of wine before the cake is ready to come out of the oven. TSM.

Going to the gym with make up and the latest Cosmo. TSM.