>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
May 21, 2006
We all know that Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow. And we all know that the little lamb followed her to school one day. But what happened when Mary went off to college? Lord knows the lamb wasn’t the only thing Mary lost freshman year. In fact, I think that her signature song goes something like this now:
Mary had a little date. Little date.
Little date.
Mary had a little date
Who met her after school.
After the date the two did mate.
Two did mate.
Two did mate.
But when his desires were satiate,
He never called her back.
Now mad Mary gets drunk and hates.
Drunk and hates.
Drunk and hates.
Now mad Mary gets drunk and hates.
She punched him in his nads.
Dating is a vicious, never-ending cycle. “Date, mate, hate.” You meet someone, you go on a date. If everything goes well, eventually you mate. You do that for a while until one of you wants some personal space, and the other person takes it the wrong way. Then it gets dramatic, and you both end up hating each other so much that whenever one of you sees the other in a bar, everyone divides themselves into two sections separated by an imaginary line, similar to that of the Mason Dixon. No one is allowed to cross into the other’s territory once they have taken a side. I’m not here to judge who is right and wrong, but I will say that if forced to choose, always aim for a space near or around the neutral bathroom territory area.
Ever date someone just because they were really hot, even though they didn’t have a whole lot of interesting things to say? You could meet them for lunch and ask them what they thought about the Grapes of Wrath lecture and they’ll reply with, “Why do grapes only come in three colors?” Or if you go to an amusement park, they’ll ask random questions like, “How do people not fall out on a coaster when it goes upside down?” Both questions I cannot answer because one has to do with bio-genetics and the other relates to physics…and mandatory safety straps. When you find yourself struggling to carry conversation past, “How was your day?” and kiss them just to shut them up, you know you’re just dating a trophy. And while trophy mating is amazing, the blow to your ego will come later when you can’t answer any more of their questions and end up getting dumped by someone twenty times dumber than you.
Did anyone ever go on that planetarium date only because they saw how romantic it looked on television? If you have, then you know that it’s way cooler on TV where it only lasts five minutes with background music then cuts to commercial. In real life it’s an hour of neck strain and mathematical equations, and they only spin the romantic stars the first two minutes at the beginning and then again at the end.
Why does a text message make or break your day? Let me tell you a true story. I met this guy. We exchanged numbers. Three days later I texted him to see if he wanted to see an improv show. No response. But it wasn’t the fact that seven days later I still have not heard from him, it was the complicated analysis I received from my friends that really made me wonder if dating was even worth it. Four sentences to him and fourteen thousand different analyses later, here’s what we came up with:
Gina: He ain’t worth it. Move on.
Me: Move on to what? The plethora of men in the greater Chicagoland area?
Andie: Maybe he didn’t get your text message.
Sometimes after not getting any for a long time (10 months, 2 weeks, 4 hours), people begin lowering their standards. For instance, for a lot of my girlfriends, smoking is a serious deal breaker. Give ‘em two weeks out of the sack though, and they’re sucking down the nico-sticks as some kind of phallic hint that they’ll give it away.
Ditching your girlfriends for your boyfriend every night because you want to play house is not fucking cool. Why are women so obsessed with playing house? We played it when we were little, dressed up in our mom’s clothes, used toilet paper to create a veil, and envisioned Jonathan Taylor Thomas as our husband. But college is there for you to find yourself, not to move into your boyfriend’s dorm room first semester of freshmen year, only to reemerge for graduation. You know what real house is like? “Fuck me then go to your own bedroom.” I’m not saying it’s right ladies, I’m saying that a large majority of married women have their separate bedrooms, and I’m just trying to better prepare you for the future.
On a completely unrelated note, do you think Jonathan Taylor Thomas had a rough time adapting to college life? If he went Greek, I would expect he got the shit hazed out of him, but how do you haze JTT? Take him home, staple him to your little sister’s wall and turn him into a human poster for a day? Because that’d be awesome.
Who doesn’t feel sorry for the one sophomore girl who constantly talks about having her first kiss? One hungover morning while she dry heaves into the toilet after a big party she confesses to two close friends and anyone in the bathroom willing to listen that instead of rounding the bases like a normal person, she goes from benchwarmer to third base. Then she’ll go on to tell a rousing rendition of how she got fingered at the bottom of a hill. Wow, pathetic. What’s worse is that she’ll undoubtedly refer to his penis as a “sizeable sausage.”
The wise Roxette told us in the 80’s to listen to our hearts when he’s calling for you. But if he’s calling you at three in the morning asking you to come over because he’s lonely, listen to your head and go back to sleep.
Everything happens for a reason. This one guy never made out with my friend and five years later she found out why. He had herpes and didn’t want to give it to her. Awww that’s sweet. Too bad 1460 days ago we wasted a whole Friday night trying to determine what his deal was.
One day though, women will reach their breaking point and start to hate en masse. They’ll take to the streets and begin rioting areas in places with large populations of men, including sports bars, pool halls, hunting stores, adult bookstores, and NRA conventions And they’ll scream, yell, and make demands on behalf of all women everywhere, “I need a definition! Define me! Define us! Give me a label so I can compose myself socially!” It’ll be like the witch hunts of the early 1800’s, only instead of pitchforks and shovels, women will be holding cans of hairspray and lighters burning down cities, trashing overpriced salons, and pilfering the ice cream man for all he’s worth. And men will still be hanging out there at the bar, taking only a moment from watching the game to glance at the commotion outside and go, “Do they outnumber us?”