I’ve got the body of a 19-year-old and the ID of a 26-year-old. TSM.

High tolerance for his alcohol. Low tolerance for his bullshit. TSM.

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.

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.

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.