Stop Being “Just A Girlfriend”

Stop Being "Just A Girlfriend"

It seems like as soon as we hit the college age, we might as well be talking about having a crippling, deadly disease when we say that we don’t have a boyfriend. Whether it’s your stuck-up aunt who constantly reminds you that she was graduating college with a diamond ring, your sorority sister who not-so-subtly shades you for asking to be set up for your fifth crush party in a row, or drunk-you at 2am, staring at your face in your dorm’s bathroom, wondering how the hell no horny frat boy wants to take you out on at least a few dates; you’re frequently reminded not only of your single-dom, but of the thing (that you’re not quite sure of) that must be wrong with you to cause it.

So you rejoice when you finally get some poor sucker to agree to post a photo on Instagram with you captioned “this girl” and to text you every hour (one the hour) when he’s out on a boy’s night.

However, the novelty of finally being able to causally drop “so my boyfriend and I…” into conversation starts to wear off, and you slowly start to equate your relationship status to that of agreeing to adopt a needy little puppy. Soon you find yourself giving into his every whim: ordering pizza with him at 2am, even though you’re on a diet, going over to his house to “hang out,” which you thought meant sex, but apparently means sit in his messy room and watch him play video games till you fall asleep, and cooking, cleaning and picking his dirty underwear up off of the floor (essentially taking over the role of his mother).

Sound familiar? If it doesn’t, congrats! You are definitely a more mature person than I am, and probably a lot more qualified to write this. If it does, you’re not alone, but girl you need to stop. Stop being “his girlfriend” and start being you again. Admit it, you find absolutely no pleasure in most of the shit that he does.

I’ve watched as my friends go from fun, “lets drink two bottles of wine on a Tuesday” girls to someone who is perfectly content watching some cartoon that is supposed to be for adults simply because it throws the word “f*ck” around far too many times. Why do they do this? Because they think that this is what it means to be a “girlfriend;” it’s the payment for having someone to occasionally rub your feet and tell creepy guys at the bar to back off.

Since the second we grew our boobs, we’ve been conditioned to obsess over boys until one of them finally lands in our clutches, but sometimes we’re so surprised with the man-child that’s been placed into our laps that we simply follow along with what they want to do instead of what we want to do. That’s how we end up giving a guy a blow job while watching Family Guy and eating some ungodly amount of calories while we live vicariously through our single girlfriends who are out meeting guys, watching The Bachelor, buying shoes, or just doing whatever the fuck they want to.

Am I telling you to dump your boyfriend? That’s up to you. But should you stop acting as a stand-in blowup doll, maid, mother and “bro” because you fear that otherwise you’ll end up alone? Hell yes. Recognize how bad you would feel if you made your boyfriend sit there and watch you tediously apply your makeup, gossip for hours with your friends or have a long, relaxing bath (ok… he might actually like the last suggestion). Instead of insisting that he has to give an eye for an eye, and start giving into all of your whims; just start acting on them yourself. Give up a night (or ten!) of hovering around him, waiting to be needed, and go do whatever you want to do. And if he doesn’t like it? Too bad… you can buy a foot massager and take care of the creepy guys at the bar on your own.

Look, you have plenty of years behind you of listening to your parents and teachers, and even more ahead of you of being tied down to a husband (because I’m sure some guy will love you even if you don’t enjoy watching him play video games), kids, a dog, job and a gazillion other adult responsibilities. Don’t waste your college years (which are coincidentally your best-looking too) being just a girlfriend.

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Hiding from my mother and standards, both of whom would disown me if they heard most of these stories. Aspiring law school student, with a chihuahua named Bruiser and a head of unnatural blonde hair. Email me your "crazy" stories or any mixed drink recipes that taste like juice, but have copious amounts of vodka in them at [email protected] Watch the bitch behind these stories at:

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