“Douche de Leche” is a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at written by some of my closest male friends, (almost completely) uncensored. This post was originally written by one of my best friends, the lovely and talented Jacob Koffler, and myself, who both think this is a very important matter.
Remember that book Everybody Poops? The one your parents read to you when you were five? Well, it’s time for part two. Not only does everybody poop, but everybody takes a hangover shit. And everyone loves it.
It seems that we’re comfortable talking about everything on the internet. But when’s the last time you read an in-depth exploration of the most essential part of your Sunday morning? Sure, there are other hangover cures-iced coffee, a bacon-egg-& cheese, helplessly moaning alone in your bed, or whipping up a Bloody Mary and starting again–but whether you’ll admit it or not, you won’t feel like yourself until you’ve trekked to the bathroom and let it all out.
Lack of a hangover shit truly ruins your day. That morning queasy-shaky-emptiness isn’t assuaged in a ten-minute playdate with your toilet. Instead, it lingers for hours and hours. As the wretched feeling slowly fades, it takes pieces of your dignity with it. It just isn’t the same.
We really can’t overemphasize the importance of the hangover shit enough. The difference pre- and post-shit is comparable to how your mother felt when she finally pushed you out. Think of all those half-digested brewskis and cocktails inside you as a baby–while you don’t want your hangover shit to be premature, at a certain point, you gotta get it out. It’s totally worth it to wait until morning; after all, the nature of a hangover shit is to shit hungover. If you’re still drunk, the satisfaction level automatically diminishes. In the morning, it just plops right out.
So, we’ve all agreed on the hangover shit’s importance. Here are some tips to maximize everybody’s favorite part of the week:
1. Bring a book. It is a Sunday, after all. Might as well multitask.
2. Bring a friend! Hangover shits are more fun in pairs and a great bonding activity. True friends are on the same hangover shit cycle.
3. Check for toilet paper before you go. This ain’t the woods.
4. And last, but certainly not least, pick the perfect bathroom. Sunday mornings often prompt waking up in a foreign location. Although the bathroom closest in proximity may be the most convenient, it doesn’t mean it’s the best. Don’t settle.
Remember, hangover shits should no longer be taboo. Let’s create a safe space in which we can all talk about it. This shit is important, people.
Being sick right now is like rolling deep at E-Zoo. Everyone’s doing it.
My sickness started the first night of Halloweek. For the first time in my life, I completely lost my voice. Usually when people lose their voices, I assume they’re faking it to try and sound “hot.” Apparently guys like it when our voice resembles theirs via 2008. So the second I hear someone complain about a lost voice (which they probably do just to show off their faux-rasp), I never hesitate to ask, “Have you tried coughing to fix that?” or, “You could probs just cough and that’ll go right away!” It’s really rude, I know, but being sick is much chicer than faking sick. Faking sick is too much effort. It’s better to just not be sick at all.
There are pros and cons to being sick. When I went home from school for fall break, I went on a psycho eating binge that wasn’t like “ugh, I had fro-yo thrice in one day” but was scary and revealed a lot about the unconscious association I have between food and home. Before I get all I-went-through-seven-years-of-therapy on you, I’ll get to the point–I literally ate myself into sickness. You don’t wanna know the gory details, but I was sick. Like, sick. The con this time around was that I almost shit my pants at a petting zoo (long story). The pro was that I lost two pounds when I should have gained five. Yay.
Mono is a sickness with tons of pros i.e. you don’t have to get out of bed for months and have an excuse as to why you physically are incapable of working out. If you have mono, everyone knows you get guys. It’s like a less slutty and more desirable form of HPV. One of my best friends (who is prominently featured on The FYD for her Big 10 prof pic) says that everyone at Michigan has mono right now. A.K.A., everyone at Michigan is sexually active right now but using protection (if they didn’t, they would have something else). This is so great to hear.
For me, being sick is an excuse not to go out. At the same time, I look like I’m such a partier that my body is degenerating. Last Saturday, I didn’t go out because I had a cold that was probably a hybrid strain of the Bubonic plague and Yellow Fever. Instead, I lied in bed with cranberry almond trail mix and fro-yo while two of my best friends sat on my carpet and told me funny stories about things like their IBS kicking in during a morning-after (another illness FTW).
Being sick really isn’t so bad after all. Honestly, if you’re gonna be popping Advil on the daily, you might as well be sick when you do. It’s good karma.
After a couple of months of neglecting the topic of bodies and a long week of binge-eating my birthday candy, I decided it was time again to have a little chat about our skin and bones.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to my guy friend about “The Freshman 15,” which, at Brown, seems to be more like “The Freshman Negative 15.” Not that people I know are necessarily losing weight, but there’s a definite fear of gaining it. We’re so aware of the possibility to gain that we can’t stop thinking about trying to keep it off. This, of course, is probably more unhealthy than the 2a.m. pizza I’m yet to have thus far.
He said, “I’ve been eating really well since I’ve been here. I work out every day, I watch what I eat… I’m all about that whole ‘My body is a temple’ thing. You know?”
Why, yes, I did know. “My body is a temple” is one of my personal favorite phrases. It sounds so nice, in theory of course, to treat your body with so much respect–to only give it beautiful and natural things like grilled chicken and chopped salad and lots and lots of Fiji water. That mantra reminds me of gentle yoga and intense SoulCycle in a candlelit room. I love saying “My body is a temple” because it sounds so pretty on the outside. And, in reality, we really should become conducive to that lifestyle. So when my friend told me that his body was a temple, what was my response?
Obviously, “Oh my God, I’m the same way!”
Do I feel like my body should be a temple? Probably. Do I always treat it like it’s a temple? Debatable. Does my body look like a temple? HA. Let’s be real… I love fro-yo too much to avoid chemical food products, and we all know it.
When guys tell you in a casual conversation that they are true believers that their bodies are temples, it says a lot about them. Generally, I jump to one of two conclusions:
1. You’re an asshole, or
2. You’re really effing earthy
And that about sums it all up. But if you’re good looking and your body not only is a temple in your minds eye, but it’s clear to see that you treat it like one, you’ll have nice Jewish girls lined up for miles to take a turn davening in your sanctuary. Screw the pews… they’ll be down to get all up in your bimah.
Guys that are earthy love treating their bodies as temples. That’s why the smoke the green stuff–because it’s “organic” and au naturale. They also love being skinny, because if you aren’t lanky and try to convince people that you’re earthy, they’re just not going to believe you. It’s a part of the look.
If you’re an asshole, you just tell girls that you like treating your body as a temple because you… (wait for it… wait for it…)
1. “…Just feel better, like all around, you know?”
2. “…Have more energy”
3. “…Like to wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and like what I see.” (I swear on my life I’ve literally heard this one before)
4. “…Gotta compensate for the beer somehow”
5. “…Deserve to look good”
etc., etc., etc.
I have a very vivid memory of reading Siddhartha in my ninth grade English class. We learned about how he would only eat very little, as little as needed, as not to be selfish or indulgent. I’ve also learned that when on a tight budget I’d rather spend my money on things other than food (things meaning the necessary waxes, fro-yo runs, and shoes) that I’ll just eat and then complain about eating for the next five days until my temporary bloat/love handles fade and I start to be able to feel my hip bones again. All of these things, when put together, paint an idealistic picture of my body being a temple. The phrase just sounds so nice, the image it engrains in your mind is so zen, but no matter how long I rant upon it, I don’t know if it will ever be possible.
The next weekend, the guy who told me that his body was a temple went home drunk from a party and spent a good hour vomiting into a trash can. Doesn’t look so sacred to me.
I can’t even say the word “Tobi” without loling. Seriously.
I felt that it was time to write an ode to Tobi, our beloved online shopping friend. Old wealthy men indulge themselves in Russian mail-order brides. Every college girl indulges herself in mail-order Tobi. It’s just the way it is.
Tobi is odd because it doesn’t exist in real life. It’s like some warehouse in California where all of your wildest 50% off dreams come true. At first, Tobi attacked the newsfeeds of girls around the country. I would use the term “rape,” because if you remember what I’m talking about, it was literally that bad. However my (extremely) liberal arts college really doesn’t approve of using that term lightly so I took it out of my vocabulary. Whoever is the chief over there is actually a genius, and uses an incredible marketing strategy. In order to get the ridiculously huge discount on already fairly-priced clothing, you have to link Tobi to your Facebook. Great for you, Tobi, but shitty for us.
From then on, Tobi is attached to you by something seemingly as strong as an umbilical cord. Every time you “like” something on Tobi from that moment on, or any time you put something in your cart, essentially all of Facebook will automatically see it. It’s really awkward. Like, no, I don’t want to know what you’re shopping for and yeah, it’ll be a little weird when I see you wearing that out the next weekend.
Tobi sends you daily emails which I have not attempted to unsubscribe from because I’m automatically assuming that there is no physical way to unsubscribe, no matter how hard I try. Tobi is clingy as f—. Let me guess–today, you got an email with the subject line, “50 new items today – 30% off the first 7 days for you!” And let me also guess–you get that email on the effing daily.
The funniest thing is when you see someone wearing something and it’s clearly from Tobi. This is easily recognized as Tobi thinks that it’s OK to make a million different articles of clothing that all look exactly the same but are in different forms (dress version and shirt version… and tank top version) and colors. The site doesn’t even have an “If you like this, you might also like…” function because everything looks exactly the same so that wouldn’t even be helpful.
Once, I was visiting a “friend” at an anonymous Big Ten school, and we were going out for the night. While walking outside, we encountered four girls emerging from a freshman dorm. I pointed at each of them, “That’s from Tobi, that’s from Tobi, that’s from Tobi, and that’s from Tobi.” They were all wearing the same thing in different colors, and it was the most ridiculous thing ever.
That same night, I also happened to be wearing Tobi. I was wearing the long-sleeved version of the exact same shirt that they were wearing, obv:
Now do you know the shirt that I’m referring to? Of course you do.
Tobi, we love you for being convenient. We also hate you for being both unoriginal and a pain in the ass. You’re great for staple tops, I suppose. Hmph.
My second post (ever) on The Fro-Yo Diaries was about “not knowing how old I am,” metaphorically, of course. Often, I feel like I really don’t. I can take care of myself, sometimes I can’t; I’m independent until I need someone desperately; I sometimes cry for hours (but then again, this could be somewhat unrelated to age and instead related to the menstrual cycle).
So on today of all days–my birthday–I would think that age would feel like more than just a number. I would expect to know how old I am for just this one day, if ever. I haven’t really had that epiphany of self-awareness ever before. But then again, I’ve never been as old as I am right now, in this millisecond. I’m getting older with each word that I type, and I’ve never been this old and I’ll never be that young again. This doesn’t worry me yet, but then again, my boobs haven’t started to sag yet and hopefully they won’t for a couple more decades. When they do, I’m sure I’ll freak the fuck out come every September 22nd.
I feel like the fact that we don’t abide to the law takes away from a birthday. Everyone says that it’s impossible to survive your 21st without vomiting all over yourself even though you’ve probably vomited all over yourself before. The only difference is that the alcohol you’re regurgitating was consumed legally. Maybe it will make you feel cooler to have covered yourself in “legal vomit,” but vomit is vomit and it’s absolutely disgusting either way. When you break it down, no one cares about the legality of your vomit. It seems cool for a second until you realize that you’ve been drinking underage since you were thirteen or fourteen, perhaps even since the sacred moment of a sip of Manischewitz from the kiddish cup at your very own Bar or Bat Mitzvah. In reality, vomit is vomit. You’ve done it before, you’ll do it again, and congrats, you’re 21.
But don’t get me wrong–I absolutely love birthdays. I always was very into themed parties. Kindergarten was Dalmatian themed. A clown came and did Britney Spears karaoke with us. We got spots painted on our faces and made our own dog ears. First grade was Luau. Everyone wore bathing suits, grass skirts, and leis. I had an epic sandbox in my backyard and we obviously played limbo. A week before the party, a girl who I didn’t like much from my class in school came up to me and told me that she got her invitation, to which I responded, “You did? But you weren’t invited.” To my knowledge, she wasn’t. And clearly, things haven’t changed much since then as my lack of both a filter and a patience for people who piss me off remains to this day. If you were wondering how the story ends, she insisted that she was invited, which was odd because she was talking to me and it was my party. She didn’t show up, but, like, whatever. She also peed in her pants once and I told everyone about it, so I guess the lesson learned is don’t go where you aren’t welcome/karma’s a bitch/all things happen for a reason/God has a plan or something like that.
My mom would always get me a cupcake on my half birthday, and all of my friends thought that was weird. It’s not weird, it just bolstered my reputation as a
chunky bodacious preteen and made my mom the coolest mom ever.
The most interesting thing about birthdays to me is how well-celebrated they are. It’s as if someone is patting you on the back and saying, “You’re alive!!!! Yayy!!!!!” Last night I went out to celebrate the eve of my birth, and I happened to run into a lot of my international friends. Each of them kept telling me “Congratulations!!!!!!!!!” I think they only said that because of the literal translation of whatever the word they use at home to send well wishes on a birthday is. But, I could be wrong. Maybe they mean “congrats” when they say it. As cliché as it sounds, today I keep thinking about how I should celebrate being alive every day. I’m dead serious. Before I get sappy enough to film an Activia commercial–maybe even a birth control one–I’m going to stop. But you get what I mean.
To close, I would like to show everyone to a great BuzzFeed article I saw that lets you find out which fictional character has the same birthday as you. So, I would like to cordially wish a very happy birthday to Frodo and Bilbo Baggins!
The discussions I typically have amongst my friends are usually intelligent. For example, we enjoy talking about theoretical concepts in religion and politics. We also graze upon public policy and amongst public policy, we indulge in the topic of education. As a group of friends that is, for the most part, pretty intellectual, we care about education and are rather opinionated about it. Now that school is back in session, these tiny movie clips of conversation are playing on a reel inside of my head like memories I can’t seem to get my mind off of. I’m wondering if over the next “x” amount of years I spend learning, I’ll figure out the answers to some of the questions about the way stuff works. But for now, I figured that these bits of discussion and information would be good to share. Mean Girls has relevance because we can’t stop quoting it, so my everlasting questions about our system of higher education are important because I can’t stop thinking about them, right? Like is that not the basis of all logic?
The topic we’ve discussed most was more of a thesis than anything else, and it is this: not everyone should go to college.
Today, you constantly see ad campaigns pushing for a college education. Is it true that in today’s society, it seems as though lack of a four-year bachelor’s degree and even some form of post-graduate education is necessary to land a well-paying steady job? Yes, it definitely seems that way. So when I say that not everyone should go to college, I am totally aware of the fact that 9 times out of 10 in the world we live in today, higher education is necessary. But do I think that society should have remodeled itself the way it did to fit that statistic? No, not at all.
You used to not need to go to college to live pretty well-off. If you think about it, that’s why so many millennials are the first in their families to attend college. A university education is incredibly expensive (and perhaps overpriced, a topic I will delve into a little later). If you know that the career path you plan on following is not going to ever require that you know half of the things you are going to learn in college, then why waste your money and time? Economically, it doesn’t make sense.
Because of the influx in the amount of people who want to attend four-year institutions, the application process is increasingly competitive. A college acceptance is starting to become similar to winning Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. Or, for those of you who stick to diets of lettuce and coffee, think of it as willing the mega-millions. I happen to not be a huge fan of the lottery example because there’s a larger likelihood that from your college education you’ll spend around $100,000 and graduate unemployed and in debt to your parents, the bank, or if you’re lucky, both!!!! But, hey, I’m just a pessimist.
If you’re aiming for a career that will really require four years (or more) of higher education, then go for it. If anyone is in favor of being as educated as possible, it’s me. I have binders full of worksheets I made while I was in elementary school. Every weekend–hell, every chance I got–I would force my younger brothers to “play school.” My parents bought me a giant whiteboard and a set of Expo markers. If it were up to me, I would be in school forever. But why continue going if a) you aren’t super passionate about learning, like I and the other anomalies out there are, b) it isn’t necessary for the lifestyle you want to lead, and c) the expenses are outrageous?
You could say that the real problem here is the very cost of education; if higher education wasn’t so expensive, then it wouldn’t be so difficult to give another four years of your life to learning, and although your career may not require all of the learning that is non-specific to your trade, the price of the education would make the whole experience worth it regardless.
And, now, on the topic of expense: why is college getting increasingly expensive? I’m not so great at economics, but I know the rule of supply and demand. When supply is low, demand goes up, and price goes up. When supply is high, and demand is low, price goes down. Although college is getting more competitive, there is a larger number of students now than there ever was before. So demand is high, but it also seems that supply is high. And… price is high? Something isn’t right here. I’m no Econ major, but what do you expect from a pointless liberal arts education anyways?!?!
If anything, I feel like the value of a college education is going down. When everyone’s getting a college degree, no one’s getting a college degree. What I mean by this: when everyone’s wearing Doc Martens, they lose their cool. Now do you get what I’m saying? So, we’ve resorted to various graduate degrees. When something is less unique, it’s less valuable. This is not to say that I don’t feel absolutely #blessed for the education experience I’m receiving. I wouldn’t change a thing for the world. But maybe I’m just a victim to the times.
I know little about packing for anything. My mom was always super into doing the camp trunks, and my only job in this process was to mold my mouth guards so I could be well-equipped while bench-warming during field hockey and lacrosse. It takes me minimum two hours to pack to go anywhere, and I pack for triple the amount of time that I will spend in any given location. When I go away with my family, I am typically able to tell which sized luggage I should bring with me by looking at the suitcase that my two brothers share together and then I find one twice as large to carry just my clothing (shoes go in a separate bag).
Against my will, however, I have to start getting in the mindset of packing to go to school next year. It will take me a few weeks to adjust to this mindset, and then another week or two to really think about packing, and then at least a month to separate things into a million piles (I always, for some reason, thought that making many small piles made me seem more organized and I ignored the fact that they just took up a ridiculous amount of surface area). The future of my packing capabilities is unforeseeable past the construction of my piles, because at that point my patience wears so thin that I get in bed and cry for a couple of hours until my mom makes me tea and I can get myself together enough to finish.
Recently, I’ve been very into posting about hypothetical things because of no particular reason at all. So, without further or due, here is a list of things I would hypothetically pack/do in preparation of having to pack if, hypothetically, I was willing to pack for school next fall.
When I was younger, I used to get an excessive amount of nosebleeds, like, on the daily. Every single time I would go to my best friend Nicole’s house for a sleepover–ugh, poor Nicole–I would get a gushing nosebleed for whatever reason. Maybe she had a humid house. To solve this problem, I got my nose cauterized and my parents put a humidifier in my room to keep the room “moist” and prevent the fragile walls of my nostrils from cracking. I don’t want my roommate to know about my excessive nasal bleeding, so I would pack a humidifier for school just in case.
As a child, I woke up at 6:30 every morning before school to read for an hour. Because of my years of reading in the dark (or I guess you could call it the “blue morning light,” if you want to get fancy), my eyes have become super sensitive to light and are starting to deteriorate. This year, I found out that I have an astigmatism (just like those twins in that contact commercial) so now I really, like actually really, need glasses. Since I’m too lazy to get glasses but still need to be able to see next year, I figured that bringing a lamp to school would be a suitable substitute. Also, a lamp will remind me of my little cute dog and the special lampshade-resembling-hat that she wears when she gets a procedure done at the vet.
Bedding is key, and it has to be clean. At sleepaway camp, I was too lazy to change my sheets every week so I thought that sleeping in my sleeping bag on top of my covers for seven weeks would be a perfectly wonderful idea. It was, in theory, but sometimes even feeling like a cocooned butterfly doesn’t replace the euphoria you feel when you get under the covers in your bed. It also doesn’t replace the feeling of cleanliness. Or dignity, for that matter. Residence Hall Linens has a gorgeous selection of bedding that I actually won’t mind washing. That is, if I am ever able to master the art of a washing machine before the ripe age of 80.
I don’t even drink coffee anymore, only herbal teas, but duh.
I refuse to walk barefoot on a foreign floor. I could be staying in the nicest and chicest hotel in Abu Dhabi and still never walk barefoot on the hotel room floor. Hence, slippers are a must. Only God knows what kind of hot coals my potentially über-hippie roommate could have walked on during her gap year at an ashram.
Technically, I would love to get an adorable rug from RHL, but I really don’t know if I’ll have room for my Hoover turbo-power vacuum in my room to keep it in tip-top shape. You know, with my small piles taking up so much surface area and all. You totally should get one, though!
Because then I would eat it and get fat.
Happy packing to me!
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