Stephanie Georgopulos

Facebook is a PC. It’s been around so long, we all know how to use it, it’s like the raggedy but comfortable robe we wear on weekends and refuse to throw out. But Google+? Google+ is Apple. It’s clean cut and user-friendly. And once you go Mac? You don’t go back.

Well, you know what they (I) say – Thursday is the new Friday. People who have successfully mastered post-college socializing have been out every night of the week and are holding on for dear life by the time Friday rolls around.

I’d be totally down with everyone walking around being real if it allowed me to say things like, “How am I? Well, I was walking past Starbucks earlier and saw a trace of muffin top through my dress when I was vainly staring at my reflection. Feeling self-conscious and like I hate carbs. How are YOU?” That would be nice.

Growing up, I could see directly into a Fat Naked Man’s apartment (mostly, I could see into his bathroom). It was my first experience as a voyeur, and I loved it. I watched him cook naked, use the bathroom naked; just about anything you’d want to see a Fat Naked Man do (and more).

I arrived at Xavier High School, iced coffee in one hand and bottled water in the other. It felt like the first day of college – the hangover, the registration desk, the not knowing what I was looking for. I sat in a classroom that housed adolescent boys during the week and watched the women file in. Woman after woman after woman. By the time the classroom had filled, there were about sixteen women of varying ages occupying a half-moon of desks.

Make sure the object of your affection is within earshot (preferably standing next to their partner). Corner their best friend and lower your voice to a very audible whisper, “I don’t know what to do… I just… I have to tell her how I feel…” Stand much too close to the friend; breathe on her.

When given the choice, I want to date a Good Guy. I want someone who is a real, flawed human being – someone who, despite those flaws, makes the conscious, ongoing effort to act benevolently toward the people around him.

Calling someone ‘hipster’ is the ultimate judgmental move. It’s a superficial word that essentially means nothing – you use it when you don’t know someone well enough to hate them for a specific reason.

If a Blogger is the scum that coats the walls of a fish tank, a Troll is the Pleco fish that devours the algae, ravenously and without remorse. The two cohabitate in the blogosphere, yet their motives and means of survival are far from uniform.

I forget sometimes. I forget that I’m not playing a role. I forget that, if I’d stabbed someone, I’d be in therapy right now trying to forget. I’d be afraid to come home alone. I’d hold a steak knife in my hand and feel different about it.

The Cab Driver Who Wants to Chat. You always get into this guy’s cab when you’re on the verge of tears, or homicidal, or just plain tired. He peers back at you in his rearview mirror and decides that, while there’s an 80% chance that you want to go to sleep and never wake up again, he’d like to know what you’ve been up to these past 20+ years.

Social media is terrible for the following people: neurotics, Virgos, paranoids, the self-loathing.

Discussing your prior relationships in a maladjusted way is an excellent technique to employ when scaring someone away. Say things like, “I don’t believe in love anymore” and, “The darkest corners of my soul are forever altered.”

As the brain starts to rewire itself, the Blogger begins to concoct memories of events that never occurred, such as traumatic breakups, excommunication from the church post-tattoo, and the time it almost died in a tragic elephant riding accident at Six Flags Great Adventure.

You can’t understand why I’m single? Me either! It’s so funny – just last week, someone was whispering, ‘I love you’ in my ear, and now look at me. Single and reluctant to mingle!

I used to reassess my budget every time the price of cigarettes ballooned. “They’re $11 now? Okay… switching to one-ply toilet paper and ordering the $5 Miller High Life / Whiskey combo until my next paycheck comes. That oughta do it.”

Air Conditioning makes you a more viable candidate for sex. This could also be a con, if you’re the type of person who prides themselves on not being used for their material possessions, but you and I both know it’s secretly enthralling to have a leg up on your Ceiling Fan-owning counterparts.

I am Boy Crazy. Yes, I’m a woman, and the men who I lust after have not been boys for a measurable amount of time. But there’s no better way to describe the girlish affectation that drives me. It’s not about sex. It’s not about titles and meeting my parents and day trips. It’s about stealing glances and fluttering stomachs.