“Fuck it. It’s period week.” TSM.

Always having a back-up plan, but never being one. TSM.

Loubs are red, Tiffany’s is blue, Starbucks is hot, and so are you. TSM.

We’ve hooked up like four times now, so we’re basically engaged. TSM.

The meanest text you can send is a simple “Haha, do you remember what we talked about last night?” No, I don’t remember, and I certainly don’t want to be reminded. TSM.

It’s not resting bitch face. It’s a bonafide dirty look. TSM.

She can do her, and you’ll do you, and I’ll do me, and we’ll all live happily ever after. TSM.

Take more shots, make more shots. TSM.

Being the senior that they both fear and aspire to be. TSM.

No time for fuckboys. Plenty of time to fuck boys. TSTC.

Your parents being categorically unable to tell your sisters apart. TSTC.

I make shit show look good. TSM.

People being able to figure out which sorority you’re in because “you have a look about you.” TSM.

“Sorry, I’m not dancing. The music doesn’t match my outfit.” TSM.

Being able to borrow a fake from anyone in your family, because your whole lineage looks alike. TSM.

“Why were we that drunk on a Monday?” TSM.

*Sneaks flask into bar via Marc Jacobs clutch.* TSM.

Getting the entire bar to sing “Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue” to your boyfriend when he gets home from Afghanistan. TSM.

How can you find yourself before you’ve lost yourself? TSM.

Where are my keys? Phone? Dignity? Whatever, best two out of three. TSM.