To my orgo lab TA: We all know your girlfriend excites your carbonyl group, but how bout you wait ‘til after class to show it?
To the manager of Williams Cafe: I like you just like my coffee—tall, steaming hot and full of cream.
To the freshman boy who tried to get with me this Fling: You had a booger in your nose, so you can blow yourself.
To the Theos boy who probably wrote most of these cruel Shoutouts: Do you realize how much time you’re wasting writing this? You could be out right now making yourself socially relevant!
To myself: You’re hot (sorry I needed an ego boost).
To the King of Fisherman: You no longer have me hooked. You of all people should have known that catch and release doesn’t yield the greatest net gain. Don’t bother throwing out another line. You’ll never reel me back in ‘cause that boat has sailed… (EDITOR’S NOTE: This Shoutout seems a little fishy).
To Greek Lady tzatziki sauce: Are you sour cream? Be honest.
To Debbie at Magic Carpet: Sometimes I think I love you more than my own mother.
To my poor aching lady parts: Maybe I shouldn’t have fit four years worth of college experiences into my last semester.
To the Adam Levine look–alike bartender at Smoke’s: This love is taking its toll on me.
To the APES sophomores: When I see you talking to girls in my sorority, I just want to laugh thinking about how you all were skinny virgins in high school.
To the Perelmans: Surely there must be a couple ‘mil in there somewhere to tackle the scourge of early–onset baldness that’s been plaguing Penn men, right?
To my ex–bf: Dishing out for Valentine’s Day dinner doesn’t make you any less Jewish.
To my creepy roommate: I know where you sleep.
To the blackout idiot who took a leak on my radiator and then climbed back into bed with me: You really know how to piss me off.
To the sushi station Houston workers: Nothing excites me quite like the way you yell “spicy bowl.”
To my senior boyfriend who I always freak out by talking about babies and marriage: Marry me?
To the senior girl who told a cop during fling, “Unless there is a law against being 21 in a dinosaur costume while in ZBT’s bushes you better leave me alone”: You are dino–mite.
To all the gays in Elmo: Look, I know you make out with girls. Just tell me where to sign up.
To my housemate: Okay, fine, don’t break up with him—but TELL HIM TO STAY AWAY FROM OUR CHOBANI.
To The Latina Friar: Please disconnect your Foursquare from your Twitter. We already know you’re at Smokes.
To everyone who went abroad second semester: You’ll miss seeing this shoutout, just like you’ve missed everything else.
To Greek Lady tzatziki sauce: Are you just sour cream? Be honest.
To APES: Your off–campus status will last about as long as you do in bed.
To the girl who left her shit–stained underwear in my room: Stop asking me why I won’t text you back.
To Kweder: I hope your documentary is as good as my Tuesday nights.
To Girl Talk, Tyga and Janelle Monae: I went to the concert and still have no idea who you are.
To my roommate who jerks off when he thinks I’m asleep: It’s hard to sleep to the noise of UFC reruns.
To Allegro’s: This isn’t Student Health. You can’t just set your own hours.
To the girl wearing an all–denim ensemble to Penn Previews: You’re not going to fit in. But it’s going to be okay.
To the football player who pours beer on girls that deny him: It doesn’t take a Guinness to know that your Yuengling is a stout.
To the Smoke’s bouncer who bends my New York ID & rubs his fingers across the chalky interior every single fucking time: We get it. You learned a new card trick. Can I get in already?
To everyone who got arrested at Theos: Sucks to be so scene–y, huh?
To front–row girl in Human Rights: Sending the professor extra homework for the class violates OUR human rights!
To the gorgeous EIC of 34th Street: I’d totally edit all your sections... Backpage included.
To senior thesis writers: Too bad senior year only happens once.
To the DP: Stop trying to make “fetch” happen.
To the Walk: I don’t hate you because you’re fat—you’re fat because I hate you.
To the impotent guy from Friday: Eat pumpkin seeds.
To the creepy contemporary poet who accidentally came in my ear and tried to clean it out for me: Dunno what’s more rancid—your disrespect for women or the crusty cum in my cochlea.
To the lovely, innocent, perfect, green balloon that my boyfriend pried out of my arms at the Fling concert: I miss you. I’m sorry.
To Disney A Capella: You do know that you sound like you are meowing right?
To the Vagina Monologues: Let's not put all the black girls in one monologue...
To the Tier One Fraternities: Must be nice up there. Love, Castle.
To the Tier Two Fraternities: Must be nice up there. Love, Castle.
CHECK BACK AT NOON FOR THE NEXT BATCH OF SHOUTOUTS!
