I’m fluent in drunk text. TSM.

Screaming “that’s my mom” as your big dances on the bar. TSM.

Knowing the grip, entrance code, and location of the composite stash for your favorite fraternity. TSM.

Asking him questions you already know the answer to thanks to stalking. TSM.

Somewhere between psychotic and iconic. TSM.

“Snap me as many times as it takes to get him off of my best friends list.” TSM.

“Omg, stop. It’s his loss.” TSM.

“All I’m saying is that if I instagramed a picture with him, it would break 100 likes, and that bitch only got seven.” TSM.

Oftentimes, I have to remind myself that if I fail out of school, I can no longer be social chair. TSM.