>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
January 23, 2005
My entire life I have been attending parties hosted by a variety of people from the estrogen pool. Which is really just a clever way of revealing that through most of my life all of my friends have been, and it looks like probably always will be, girls. There are several reasons why my friendship history has an alarmingly absent number of males. The community I grew up in in Florida was dominated by girls. Not only that, but mom but me in Brownies, figure skating classes, and cheerleading—not exactly male-dominated activities. Then she sent me to an all-girls high school. So basically if someone were to ask if I'm an expert on girls I would have to say yes, not only am I an expert, but it's all I've ever known.
But perhaps the main reason I've only ever had girl friends is rooted in the days of elementary school, when the boys and girls were segregated into different parts of the room, never being integrated until fourth grade where we all were forced to have a partner of the opposite sex sit next to us and grade our papers all year. My first genuine guy friend, Joey Bickar—who sat next to me and coincidentally hated me—caught me picking my nose once. While a girlfriend would say, “Ew you missed some, get a tissue,” Joey proceeded to yell at the top of his lungs, “Omigod Simonne's picking her nose! Everybody watch her try to dig out that booger!!” And everyone turned and stared at me in horror. I've been scared of guys every since.
But nose picking and shin kicks aside, we all grow up. And all girls grow up to be the same thing: pretty, petty and partiers. While some individuals may excel in prettiness, partiness, or pettiness more than the other qualities, we've all got issues to deal with. Issues bigger than nose picking—because if you haven't grown out of that stage yet just stop reading and pick out one of Justin's Red Sox columns and bash him like the rest of the loser Yankee fans do.
“The only documentary I want to see these petty girls in is Supersize Me—because then they'd actually have something to complain about.”
Pretty girls who end up in college operate with a double-edged sword. There are two types of pretty girls. The pretty ones who know they're pretty and are snobs, and the ones who know they're pretty, but who are humble enough not to openly admit it. But I'm sure you can figure out which type I'm making fun of.
Pretty girls tend to tan too much. I realize that my PIC picture makes me look like I roast in a bed three times a week, but I really only go twice a month. The pretty girls I'm talking about are the addicts who go daily and pluck their eyebrows so much it looks like they were drawn on by a colored pencil in a semi-circle formation. Did I say pretty? I mean pretty to draw on.
Pretty girls are not allowed to be friends with guys who have girlfriends. Because pretty girls are always a threat to everyone—except gay men who they love to brag about going shopping with. And it's been like this from the beginning of time when there was probably this one really hot cavewoman chick who figured out how to pluck her chin hair or something and all the other cavemen wanted to be her friend because she was smart enough to tweeze. But all the other hairy-chinned cavewomen collaborated and decided that the hairless wonder should not be allowed to grunt and use primordial sign language around their cavemen boyfriends until she got one of her own. Preferably the ugliest one in the pack and pointed out she picked her nose.
And that one Cro-Magnon moment has trickled down through thousands of years and now here the pretty girl sits in college, with guys only willing to be her friend when she's single. It's especially bad when their boyfriend is from another school, but her obsessive possessiveness has the bionic ability of pulling her across state lines. So pretty girls are only allowed to be friends with the guy until noon on Saturday when she arrives and he unplugs the room phone, shuts off the cell, and begins admitting to her that while yes he does go to a co-ed school he has not actually exchanged words with one of them or allegedly even made eye contact with anyone but his frat brothers and their cleaning lady—who by the way is happily married and/or joining St. Alfonso's Convent in the near future.
Party girls. There are several kinds of party girls. Those who work hard and play hard, and those who work as little as possible and play it to the max. And then there's the Paris Hilton type who I'm sure hasn't been to more that six classes since her freshman year, and can always be found at a party on weekdays and a club opening on weekends. While the Paris Hilton types are few and far between, there are petty girls out there who believe that every party girl gets crap for grades and never studies. And if that were true, then Paris Hilton wouldn't have been able to write that book of hers; evidently she can read which implies that at some point she did attend junior high.
In the party girl's defense (to the petty girls out there), party girls wouldn't be getting into the best clubs, never having to wait for drinks, and never having to pay for drinks if it weren't for their networking skills which have elevated them to the “never have to pay for anything status.” So while they may not know anything about how the DNA components AT and GC work together, they also aren't the ones waiting outside of the club in a long line for two hours like the over-studious broads are (and who later will claim that the club is lame because they never got in).
And right now I realize that I am being petty. I know that party girls tend to pair themselves up with the smart girls in class to ensure a better grade, but don't worry about it because they will drop the class by the end of the semester and move to LA to go play with Lindsay Lohan anyway.
I've seen some friends of party girls turn on them. They claim they don't want to get the “party all the time reputation,” but let me tell you something about these girls: they're just as sloppy drunk and slutty because party girls know not to sleep with anyone to keep up the illusion of the possibility. So while the petty girls are out banging the teamsters and roadies—or if you've lucked out, a back up dancer—party girls are carrying VIP passes and hanging with Bon Jovi backstage. I've seen it happen. I've lived it vicariously through my childhood best friend's sister. That's why it's Bon Jovi and not P. Diddy, I'm working with a ten year generation gap here.
You know what else pisses me off? Ghetto party girls who use way to much hair gel from the dollar store and still put their hair up in cornrows…which is just soooo 1999. These party girls declare that their man is their property by using what I like to call the ghetto homegirl method. It occurs frequently at sketchy house parties in the city, and is usually released in a misunderstanding. Once my friend Ellie had to pee and asked this guy where the bathroom was in this monstrous wreckage of a house, complete with roosters made for cock-fighting in the backyard. This one pasty white cornrowed girl propelled herself from across the room and into Ellie's face. She started getting all up in her shit, tossing around slang language and over-animated drag queen signature moves commonly seen on the Springer show trying to pick a fight. And all that was needed was a place to pee. Which was done later deliberately all over her bathroom floor. Talk hard, play hard bitch.
Petty girls love this kind of drama. They thrive off it. Even though they will be the first to admit that they want nothing to do with the drama, you will find that they are always the central characters in a relaxed situation that turns into a tornado-esque disaster. Petty girls have the ability to take a small, simple problem and turn it into this giant complication that gets dragged out for the entire semester. You know the type of girl. Every time you see her she's dealing with her entire world collapsing on top of her. You and her could have the same midterm and she'll be crying over a combination of its difficulty and…I don't know, her dinner plans being pushed back a full thirty minutes. And everyone comes around to comfort and sympathize with her when really all they really want to do is scream “Shut the fuck up! You're not the only one with problems lady! Pop a caffeine pill like the rest of us you fucking twat!” Petty girls believe that their lives reflect poorly-made soap operas like Passions or Beverly Hills 9021-drama, when really it's more like a documentary of selfishness and whining. The only documentary I want to see these girls in is Supersize Me—because then they'd actually have something to complain about.
Petty girls are the girls on my floor who complain about the noise level coming from our room, but won't listen to a word I'm saying when I complain about their compulsive need to stink up our floor with their curry-loving cooking. So realistically we're both pretty petty. Because I won't stop having people over, and they won't stop eating.
In the end all of us are pretty petty partiers. All of us are still friends with each other. All of us fight. All of us laugh. All of us cry. All of us party. All of us complain. All of us shout. All of us have bad habits, but apparently I'm the only one who picks my nose.
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