Chelsea Fagan

There is nothing worse than listening to people rationalize or justify or downplay the amazing, perfect food that they are about to ingest.

In some ways, it is a compliment. When you are more rude or flippant or hurtful with a very close friend, it is a way of saying to them, “I trust your love enough to know that it will weather the storm of my selfishness.”

We all know that couple who is constantly “breaking up,” making dramatic exits and carrying on these absurd public fights on a bi-weekly basis because, one can only imagine, they get some kind of thrill from being terrible to one another and making everyone else around them uncomfortable.

Then, around 5 PM, you attempt to eat a sandwich to replenish your depleted hit points and end up falling asleep in your dinner plate, covered head-to-toe in a second degree sunburn.

Afternoons spent on AIM with friends, talking about crushes and perfecting your away messages to be the perfect mix of coy and enticing. (No combination of emo lyrics and illegible fonts were too outlandish for the cause.)

It’s not until you go inside and are covered with the kind of sunburn that falls somewhere between “purple” and “my skin is sloughing off in sheets of pain,” that everyone realizes you weren’t kidding.

You have those “silent dinners” you always feared.

I don’t even mind if my head smells like a dead raccoon by day six, I want to look perpetually Adele-chic and not have to sacrifice four hours of my day’s time with a comb and a flat iron to do so.

“Don’t you know that [insert junk food here] is bad for you?”

We have all gone for that teased look to get some of that fantastic volume that everyone loves so much, only to realize it turns your entire head into a bird’s nest of knots and pain and struggle for the next several days.

There are few things more depressing than seeing an entire generation of men who have perhaps one suit at best, and break it out only for weddings, funerals, and any other Extra Special Event that calls for an ill-fitting black travesty out of the recesses of some nightmarish Men’s Warehouse Polyester Emporium.

If you don’t “get” avocados, it’s time for you to be pushed off a cliff of some kind, because you are wasting valuable oxygen that the rest of us could be using to more efficiently consume avocados.

Though it comes as no surprise to nearly every woman on the planet that porn is not geared towards us whatsoever, it’s always nice to know that not just straight porn is as off-putting as it is unrealistic.

Bonus points if you actually use different voices/accents for the different people in the imaginary conversation. That is a prestigious level of shower insanity.

It is so much more simple to say, “Stop caring what a man thinks, ladies, you’re beautiful as you are,” than to address all of the myriad reasons why that likely doesn’t apply to her.

Soon, your honger — your hungry anger — will drive you to eat that Jumbo Slice and/or pack of nuggets as though it dishonored your family name and this is feudal China.

6. If we don’t orgasm, it’s not to spite you.

“Why don’t you just take an internship?”