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

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

“But then I found out he was a democrat, so I ended it.” TSM.

As I walk through the valley in the shadow of the frat house, I will fear no standards, for my vodka and whiskey they comfort me. TSM.

Spring break plans? Get hella turnt and somewhat burnt. TSM.

“Do you have any hot friends?”
“All my friends are hot.” TSM.

Sometimes, I wonder how all those drunk girls I’ve bonded with in bathrooms are doing. TSM.

Drunkenly painting your nails and waking up to what can only be described as The Great Nail Polish Massacre of 2015. TSM.

Turning your letter shirt inside out for the walk of shame, because you respect your sorority enough not to shame it, but not enough to keep you from doing the shameful thing. TSM.