1. 3 Skinny Cow ice cream bars = 1 normal ice cream.
So since its fat free, chemically sweetened whipped air, I can eat the whole box, right? Maybe you’re wondering why I can’t just have one scoop of regular ice cream, which tastes way better than the three wax-coated “chocolate” cones I just ate? ’Cause that, like, has calories. So don’t even bother suggesting it.
2. The rule of 3s.
Remember the first time you watched American Pie and that chick you wouldn’t remember until she returned years later in Orange Is The New Black sagely claimed that all guys multiply their sexual partners by three and all girls divide by three? And it was sooo funny cause you could make fun of your guy friends for (likely) still being virgins? As well as guiltlessly justify those six body shots that kicked off your Tara Reid, Taradise, slut fest of a spring break. In all honesty, her proto-feminist rants did less for female sexuality than Jason Biggs did with his dick in a pie. That said, it’s still 100% fair to say the first number under ten that pops in your head when your boyfriend drops that question. So what’s your number?
3. Jean size = dream size.
Note to all human beings on planet earth: do not ever ask a girl her jean size. This question is nowhere near the mild embarrassment that comes with admitting you are a size 11 ½ shoe, which you only do to your girlfriends after cleaning up at a sample sale. No, this question is as loaded as the double bacon cheeseburger you passed on to squeeze into your tight-ass leather pants. You might as well ask a girl if she wears super or super plus tampons. Just don’t do it, and even if you dare brave those waters, know that you will never get an honest answer. It will always be the size she was three years ago or, more likely, the size she hoped to be three years ago. So unless you ask a contestant on The Biggest Loser, who will happily drop trou to prove it to you—something you want even less than the big fat bitch slap you get for asking the rest of the female population—just don’t ask.
4. Calories burned = cookies earned.
We all go to Soul Cycle for several reasons. One being that 1 in 3000 chance that you end up disgustingly sweaty, sitting on a bike next to Bradley Cooper. Which, I can say from experience, will not impress him. He might even switch bikes. Or ask you to stop staring and mind your own fucking business.
Another reason girls go to this overpriced exercise class is because all your friends do it and if you don’t go too then you are a fatty. Bringing us to the real reason girls work out: cookies. Or if you’re not a cookie person, then shut the fuck up cause you know what I’m talking about (and are probably lying). We work out because it means we can still eat disgusting foods, impressing men and women alike with our crazy ability to house a rack of ribs and afterwards say absolutely bullshit things like, “I just have a really fast metabolism!” Right. I’m sure you do, you skinny bitch. More likely than good genes is that you’ll sit next to Bradley Cooper AND that he’ll let you sit on his face after (AKA not real and/or possible). So just know that for every fry that super hot chick eats on the first date, there is one extra hour of torture on the treadmill tomorrow morning. Know it, and appreciate it.
5. The guest list = who can’t come.
Sometimes, girls like to throw parties. Sometimes we are nice and throw them for our friends so that they don’t sit at home crying into an empty box of skinny cow bars (ok, three boxes) on their insanely depressing 25th birthday. But most often, we throw 4th annual 21st birthday parties for ourselves, and despite holding them at some shitty dive bar that was the only place to accommodate you on a day’s notice, we do it with a super-exclusive guest list. And the conversion here lies in what this list means. It’s not who is on the list, but who isn’t on it: the girl hitting on your boyfriend last weekend, the dreaded ex that weaseled his way into your group of friends who just won’t get his own fucking life, and that bitch who always buys the same clothes as you and pretends it was just a coincidence. A guest list is not meant to give your friends easy entry, it’s meant to horribly shame those uninvited gate crashers and people you’ve purposely excluded in a soul-crushing way that you can only justify doing cause it’s your birthday. Or cause you wore sweatpants already this week and YOU CAN’T SIT WITH US.
6. Natural glow = $1,000 debt to Sephora.
When a girl has an incredible glow in the dead of winter AND she never misses an opportunity to credit her lucky gene pool and natural olive skin tone, then she is a fucking liar. And a quick glance at her credit card bill while digging through her trash to find what face cream she uses will prove it. She is in debt to Sephora for thousands of dollars and is on a first-name basis with the Bliss facial staff. Even though she is broke, she fucking glows, and it’s all worth it cause her cream is made from A MILLION FUCKING DIAMONDS (insert eye-roll here). Or she really is naturally glowing, cause that bitch is pregnant.
7. Girls never poop = The Hunger Games, The Prequel: Pooping Fire.
We’ve all been there: squeezing nine of your friends into the smallest two-person beachfront villa cause we’re young and can’t actually afford the vacations of our dreams. But making room for your friend’s gorgeous college buddies is absolutely essential, and if you are forced to share a bed with them, well, that’s a sacrifice you are willing to make in the name of, uh…being a good friend. While evading hotel security to avoid paying for extra guests can be exhilarating, close quarters makes it extremely difficult to handle the unpublicized perks of vacationing in Mexico: Montezuma’s revenge. After three days on a tequila bender, you will wake up like Katniss Everdeen in the less successful Hunger Games prequel…the girl pooping fire. And you just boldly claimed last night that you have never pooped a day in your life, cause girls don’t do that. So don’t question the inexplicable trips to the hotel lobby in search of more conditioner, fresh towels, dinner reservations, etc., and definitely don’t suggest that she just call the concierge. Really all she’s looking for is a public bathroom, located as far away from you as humanly possible.