Walking out of VP on Saturday afternoon, I had five new Grindr messages. Booyah. Three messages were from an old “professional type” looking for a twinky college boy, and the others were from a steamy grad student in the School of Design.
Theta frosh: Siri, where's Oz?
A's boy: Who the fuck doesn't have Uber?!
Girl on Locust: I may have egged a house once.
VP security guard: I ooze flowers.
Blonde girl: I just feel like I get really fucked up and suck dick at every date night.
OWLS senior while reading Lowbrow: Oh, they copied us!
Sassy JAP: Everyone knows that Jews melt in the rain.
Former Skulls bro: No, we should definitely get a book deal, ‘Last Days of Skulls’ and then have a picture of our chapter house in black and white on the cover.
Mom in Capo: I’ll take a cappuccino for me and a babyccino for my son here.
“Don’t ever, ever call me again, you low–life scum, you trash!” I hang up with finality, promising that this is the last time I break up with my on–again, off–again “boyfriend”—at least, that’s what I think I’m supposed to call him.