Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“I know.” I nodded in agreement. “Because he’s so loyal normally.”
“No, I mean because he’s ugly. How did he find a girl to go down on him?”
“What?” I gasped. “He’s not ugly.”
“Oh come on, Starlet. He’s med-ugly. There’s no denying that. And you can’t defend him after he did that to you. On your birthday!”
“On my birthday!” I cried, tossing my hands up in the air. “He is med-ugly!”
“So med-ugly.”
“What’s med-ugly?” I dramatically sobbed.
She snickered at my theatrics. After living with me for the past three semesters of our college career, Whitney wasn’t too fazed by me.
“It’s a person who isn’t completely ugly, but medium ugly. Med-ugly.”
I huffed and puffed. “John is so med-ugly.”
“And you’re hot. Like hot-hot. Maybe not right now with the whole exorcist girl makeup look you have going on, but baby, you’re a knockout. You were doing charity work, sweetie. But the problem with a hot-hot dating a med-ugly is that most of the time, the med-ugly gets cocky thinking he’s hot because he got a hot-hot, you know?”
“You should teach a college course on this topic.”
“I would save millions of women from heartbreak. The worst thing in the world is being heartbroken over a med-ugly guy. You probably had to convince yourself to date him in the first place. If anything, you’re probably feeling embarrassed right now that out of all the penises in the world, it was that one who hurt you. He had no right to hurt you, looking like that.”
“Because I’m hot-hot?”
“Yeah. All women are hot-hot. Most men are med-ugly. But they are just cocky jerks who dated hot-hots, and now their egos are out of control! It’s alarming, and I blame the patriarchy. This is a tale as old as time. Do you know why Napoleon was such a dick? Because some hot-hot girl probably told him he wasn’t that short, and BOOM! The rest was history.”
I snickered a little, and Whitney’s eyes lit up.
“That’s what I like to hear, laughter,” she sang. She hurried over, hopped onto my bed, grabbed my phone, and shut off the song.
“Hey! That’s a great song,” I whined.
“No. Do you know what a good song is? Anything Lizzo right now. Or ‘Flowers’ by Miley Cyrus.”
“Maybe Sza?”
“No! No Sza right now. There’s a time and place for Sza, but it’s not during a breakup.”
Fair.
She grabbed a hair tie from my nightstand, then bundled my hair into a bun on my head. She then wiped away my tears with her thumbs. Cupping my face, she locked my brown eyes with her blues. “You know what we’re doing tonight?” she asked.
“Eating Ben & Jerry’s and going through old pictures of John and me?”
She gave me the “don’t make me smack you upside the head” look.
I sighed. “What are we doing?”
“We’re going to a frat party.” She wiggled her hips against my bed and clapped her hands in excitement. “We’re going to a frat party to celebrate your birthday!”
“I don’t go to parties.”
I was the opposite of the “go to parties” type of girl. My college life was wrapped around class, class, and class again. Then I’d sit in my dorm room and study for hours. I didn’t let anything distract me from my goals, particularly partying. Who had time for hangovers, drama, and dressing up while pursuing their dreams?
Oh gosh. John was right. I was Cheerios!
Whitney placed her hands against my shoulders and shook me. “Starlet.”
“Yes?”
“We’re going to this party. You are going to drink cheap, bad alcohol, and you are going to flirt with men who aren’t med-ugly. And I swear, if I see you with a med-ugly, I will shout MU at you.”
“What if the guy is hot?”
“Then I’ll tip my invisible hat your way, and you shall proceed cautiously. Hot men are assholes, too.”
“Remind me why we like guys again?”
“We were programmed in our youth to find the opposite appealing, which led to us gaslighting ourselves for years to come due to society's drive to push the past social norms onto our plates to make our parents and grandparents feel as if they didn’t waste decades of their lives not living in their truth, which, in turn, led to them wanting us to remain in their lies.”
Whitney always had the most long-winded answers for the simplest questions.
I shrugged my shoulders. “And here I was thinking it was because we liked penises.”
“Oh yes.” She nodded in agreement. “We do like the penises. Now, get showered and get dressed. We’re going out in a few hours.”
I stood in the kitchen of a dimly lit fraternity house, feeling completely out of place. My hair was still slightly damp from my shower, and I wore a black tank top with tight black jeans. The jeans were Whitney’s, and she swore they’d make my butt look amazing. I’d never worn such tight jeans, but my behind did look pretty plump when I glanced in the mirror before we left.