I can’t tell you what gift-wrapped presents I got last year for my birthday but I can tell you about how glorious it felt to have the day off of work, eat chocolate chip pancakes from IHOP with my husband in my PJs, and then go to Las Vegas for the first time, where I tripled my gambling allowance at the blackjack tables.
Man, there are times I want simultaneously to punch myself in the face, bash my head against the steering wheel, and ram into every BMW-driving douchepig until we both explode in a fury of nihilistic redemption.
You want to drink in DC? Read this handy-ass guide.
I’m going to do my own thing, because if someone is meant to be in my life, they will come, and they will stay. Or, you know, whatever, I’ll adopt a cat (or five). That’s cool, too.
The notion that members of Greek life join just for the parties is perhaps maybe the stupidest. You don’t join a sorority for the weekends; you join a sorority for life.