this one's for the girls

    You’re a girl.

    Your favorite place to eat lunch is Panera.

    You had never tried beer until they came out with Bud Light and Lime.

    You tell stories that include the necessary epilogue of, “You had to be there.” You’re laughing like a coquettish maniac that makes us all think, my god, I suppose we can’t judge since we weren’t there, but I really hope we had to be there, or else this girl has a serious mental disability.

    You think Dane Cook is funny. You kind of wish he was your bf.

    You think Ellen is funny. You kind of wish she was your bff (BNIAGW).

    Your favorite karaoke songs are “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” “I Will Survive,” and “Love is a Battlefield.” Depending on the number of Smirnoff Ices you’ve consumed beforehand, they are all dedicated to your ex-boyfriend.

    Your ex-boyfriend is a lying son of a bitch.

    His new girlfriend is a whore, and I mean seriously, she JUST got out of college. How could you have ever dated someone THAT immature? It doesn’t matter, you got your girls with you, and the club is playing the terrible rap song that has a dance that goes with it that just came out last week and THIS IS YOUR SONG, you announce.

    You go to wedding showers and baby showers and you do gift registries and you eat a very tiny piece of cake while you’re there and hold back tears and just hope to god that this will happen for you someday.

    You go out to Georgetown, Dupont, Adams Morgan…any place that is inconvenient to get to and has a 400% mark-up on drinks.

    You take at least 300 pictures every time you go out.

    Of those 300, at least 50 make it on Facebook.

    You spend the next morning looking through said pictures, laughing maniacally and screaming, “DETAG! DETAG!!!”

    You go to Zumba class thinking that you’re really going to get into shape and show said ex-boyfriend, goddammit, this is what you’re missing out on, you lying son of a bitch. When you get home from Zumba, you have a pint of Ben and Jerry’s for dinner while watching Sex and the City and thinking I’m totally the Miranda of my group.

    Your underpants cost more than most work pants.

    Your sweatpants cost more than you make in a month. After all, how affordably can they stud the word, “Hottie” in diamonds to the ass of something? You think it’s a decent value.

    You are probably the reason for the gender pay gap.