To Mask & Wig: Not inviting Bloomers to Comfest is like not inviting your drunk uncle to a wedding — nothing funny happens.
To every pre–med at Penn who thinks he or she’s smarter than a liberal arts major: Guess what, I’m better at sex.
To the closet druggie in my house who color–coded her prescription medication: Maybe it’s time to lay off the Adderall?
To the kid who thinks Allegros is pronounced “Allegrays”: Get your shit together.
To the cheerleader who tried to get me to have a foursome: I didn’t read enough of “Fifty Shades of Grey”w for your fantasies.
To the Senior Superlatives: Most Irrelevant Publication.
To the girl who we fought to give our house to who then asked for the money she paid us for furniture back 4 months later: We can’t think of anything meaner to say than last semester’s Shoutout about you.
To my early calc recitation on the 4th floor: Thank you for making me look out of shape.
To the TriDelt who threw up while giving me a blowjob in the woods: Thanks for finishing.
To Skulls: If only you were called Brains.
To St. A’s: Thanks for the Romney poster during election season. Your political leanings would otherwise be a complete mystery.
To the Blonde TriDelt senior: The fact that you’re working at a Big 3 consulting firm would be more impressive if we didn’t all know Daddy bought you the job.
To our neighbors: We know you called the cops on us during Sandy. We stole your beer later, so we guess that makes us even.
To the Vagina Monologues: Thanks for the circle jerk (rub around?) that was your cast auditions.
To the overly friendly international student across the hall: For the first month of school I thought you had a twitch. I finally realized you were just trying to wink.
To the Theta Whartonite whose 15–year–old sister is infinitely hotter than her: At least you got the brains, right?
To the TFA Campus Coordinator: I haven’t responded to your e–mails in months and I took a job in investment banking. What else do I need to do to get you to stop e–mailing me?
To the stud down the hall who walks to the shower in his boxers: You’re the only reason we keep the door open.
To my suspicious roommates: I lied. I did eat the BBQ Fritos.
To the Theos boy who drunkenly took a flight back to Philly from abroad: You flew commercial?
To my bitchy vegan and vegetarian roommates: Sorryimnotsorry the apartment smelled like bacon for days.
To the cute girl in my Bio class: I like your glasses and I think we’d make a cute couple
To all the guys in my Bio class: I TOTALLY BANGED THAT CHICK WITH THE GLASSES!
To my excessively horny housemate: I can hear you yelling and moaning every time you jerk off. You should know: if you’re making that much noise alone, you’re probably doing it wrong.
To that SDT girl in Off The Beat: “Stay” is still stuck in my mind. As are your legs.
To Shoutouts: You are way less classy than Penn Compliments.
To Penn Compliments: Why you gotta make us look bad? Love, Shoutouts.
To my history class: It’s so over and done with.
To the girl who is obsessed with Mongols: I would dress up as Genghis Khan for you in bed.
To the person who designed FroGro: What were you smoking?
To the Linguistics PhD student subletter that lives in my house: WAKE UP, THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE. Just kidding. But now that you’re up, can you help my with my Linguistics homework?
To the SDT girls: Passover is over. We can eat carbs now.
To the intelligent senior in my management recitation who never wears shoes: Will licking your toes help me get a job at McKinsey?
To the girl who sends multiple e–mails to the entire Psych 001 listserv asking us to like a Facebook page for a contest: Did you win?
To the kid who rode his unicycle in the frigid rain across College Green wearing shorts: You’re an inspiration to aspiring arctic circus performers everywhere.
To the Penn Museum: ‘Tis Not the End of the World if I don’t see the Maya 2012 exhibit.
To the brother of the fraternity formerly known as AEPi who looks like a gorilla: You must be pleased with the name change.
To Harvest: I miss Marathon.
To everyone: Stop playing Gangnam Style.
To all the alumni who still write in Shoutouts: Is it sad that we do this?
To the freshman guy that looks like a meatball: Stop looking so much like a meatball.
To all the people named Astrid at Penn: Why are there so many of you??!! It’s not a common name.
[Ed. note: we checked in the Penn directory…there are only two.]
To Penn Cru: Thanks for taking that shouting preacher’s place in front of Van Pelt and apologizing for religion’s evils. You’ve restored my faith in humanity.
To my roommate: He’s over you. You are never, ever, ever, getting back together.
To that girl on our floor who is transferring: We all know you’re a racist. We found your twitter.
To Kings Court electricity: Your shortcomings have not stopped me from submitting Shoutouts.
To the men’s rugby team: Thank you for having to trade shirts between matches. Love, all women.
To all the girls, everywhere: You’re allowed to make a move, too. Feminism and all that jazz.
To my housemate who takes shits and then neither wipes nor flushes: Get your shits together.
To the freshman girl who posted a picture of herself in a recording studio: “Money Can’t Buy You Class.”
To the masturbating man I pass on my runs: When are you gonna stop beating off around the bush and ask me out already?
To our friend who broke up with her boyfriend months ago: YOU BROKE UP WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND MONTHS AGO!
To the late night cashier at FroGro: Thank you for not passing judgment as I purchase a pizza and white cheddar popcorn by myself week after week.
To my Locust housemate who made out with a homeless man on our front porch and then proceeded to give him her number when he returned the next day: Why???
To my friend who stole the eight ball from Drinker’s: Is it likely that you’ll return it or should I ask again later? #JewishGrandmaGuilt
To Houston Market: There’s nothing like some double–sided tape to make my “paid” sticker seem brand new every time I want some food.
To the OTB musical director: You still look like Robert Pattinson.
To the new boy in OTB: You look the like the musical director.
To all the flamboyant guys who won’t come out of the closet: There’s gold at the end of this rainbow! We love you!
To my Intro to the Bible professor: Maybe I’d come to class more often if you incorporated more of your shirtless Israel trip pics into your slides.
To “I can smoke more than you because I have a penis”: You can’t. Stop trying.
To the pack of Penn Security Guards who thought the blue lights were part of the Septa Line: I fear for my safety.
To the boy in the Radian with the one–pound Yorkie: I’m sorry for reporting you to facilities. Next time don’t kick me out after we hook up.
To that Zete junior: we get it, you’re American, you can stop wearing red, white and blue.
To the girl who rolls her eyes at me and thinks I’m obsessed with her: Ugh, you’re right.
To my Language and Thought Professor: The Pope is NOT a bachelor!
To the creepy guy at Tap House who told me I looked like Michelle Branch: Tell me why you’re here and who you are?
To the Chi O nurse who took a shot for every raindrop during the hurricane and didn’t even get drunk: YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT.
To my friend who met her lover on Twitter: I can’t even pick up a drunk guy at Kweder, let alone score in 140 characters or less. #jealous #twitstar
To Amy Gutmann: How long does it take you to iron your face in the morning?
To the Snapchat–obsessed roommate who sent me a thousand pics of her dog over Thanksgiving: That’s 3,000 seconds of I don’t give a shit.
To the girl in the Harrison Rooftop Lounge who can’t whisper: Go die.
To the guy who works at the microfilm desk at Van Pelt: You are super cute and I was looking at that vintage porn FOR A CLASS, I promise!
To the incessant chatterbox parading as a PSCI honors student: We’ve been timing you this semester. You’ve wasted 51:09 minutes of our lives this semester. Shame on you.
To the TEP junior abroad in Israel: I quite enjoyed giving you Dome of the Cock.
To you know who you are: I did not tell people that you asked me to lick your butt! Though I sort of wish I had at this point. You are being such a bad sport.
To that girl in the quad with the poop fetish: You can lick my butt any day.
To the ginger who asked me to lick his butt: I’m sorry for telling your entire frat. And now I guess I’m sorry for telling the entire school.
[Ed. note: Who knew that Shoutouts could work as a weird poop–fetish matchmaking service...]
To that ZBT guy who licked my face at one of their parties: That’s gross. Don’t lick faces.
To the Member of the Tribe in Masala: Your matzah balls. My naan. All Friday night long.
To Mask & Wig: Can I get some chicken with all that jerk?
To the guy who comes an hour late to lecture and then leaves to get sushi to eat during lecture: I respect how few fucks you give.
To the girl who didn’t get a bid from Theta and dressed up as a Theta girl for Halloween: Stop. People can see you.
To the super sexy Harrison GA: What are the rules about dating undergrads?
To the guys of Cru who will walk me home at any hour of the day or night, no questions asked: Thanks for showing me that chivalry isn’t dead.
To the junior girls who dressed up as “methadone clinic escapee heroine addicts at the 38th and Spruce Wawa” for Halloween: Fucking bravo.
To the Critical Writing Program: you’re like Ritalin — Penn makes us take you.
To the woman I almost gave a heart attack to while flyering: Locust Walk is not for the faint of heart.
To my roommates: Stop being around so much. I need time to walk around naked.
To Bill Clinton: Your speech was so great. We finally understand how you were able to talk Monica into bed.
To Thanksgiving: You’re useless! I sleep 12 hours a day and binge eat everyday anyway.