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Report: Girl With Armpit Hair Is Cooler Than You



You, yes, you. You, with your little shrimp slump from the weight of the five course packets (unread) in your backpack. You, with your sad old dad shoes (not in a cool way). You, with a little bit of ketchup on your chin from the fries and grilled cheese you ate at Lee’s for dinner last night or possibly the fries and grilled cheese you ate at Snar for second dinner last night, because you’re the kind of person who eats fries and grilled cheese from Lee’s for dinner and then also fries and grilled cheese from Snar for second dinner on the same night. The kind of person who hasn’t called their mom back in like four days, because you are a bad child as well as a bad student, who has sad old dad shoes (in an uncool way) and a little bit of ketchup on their chin (from the fries and grilled cheese you ate at Lee’s for dinner and also at Snar for second dinner last night).


The girl in front of you in the Goodrich line is wearing sad old dad shoes too, but in a cool way. Her hair is kind of greasy, you notice, like she doesn’t wash it everyday, but only because that’s bad for its natural oils, not because she ran out of shampoo like two weeks ago and has been washing it with hand soap ever since.


She looks like someone who doesn’t even have to call her mom back, because she just calls her mom in the first place.


She lifts her arm to wave at someone, but not an actual wave, with the hand going side to side like a fucking kindergartener (which is how you wave), just a cool little salute thing.


You look beneath her raised arm – armpit hair, unshaven. There aren’t any chunks of deodorant in it or anything.


Now, she’s at the counter. She says “Hey” to the barista really casually, so it seems like she probably knows him and his major and everything, but maybe not, because she also probably says “Hey” to everyone like that, so people get worried they actually know her but forgot her name, and that makes them anxious because she clearly remembers them, because she is the kind of cool person who remembers you from a forty person 8:30 AM lecture you had together freshman fall, your name and everything.


She orders. She doesn’t stumble over any of her words. She says she hasn’t gotten this drink before, but she doesn’t even have to look at that little sign on the left that tells you how to order. She probably doesn’t even know it’s there.


You order. You stumble over all your words. You look at the little sign, like a little bitch. You still forget to tell the barista what milk you want in your little bitch boy latte, and when he asks, you have to repeat yourself like three times, because oat milk sounds a lot like whole milk and eventually you just give up even though you don’t know if he wrote whole milk or oat milk on your little bitch boy latte.


The girl in front of you gets her drink. The barista drew a little smiley face next to her name, and then all the other baristas came over and drew one too.


You get your drink. It has whole milk, not oat milk.


You weep.


You’ll call your mom back tomorrow, you decide. She won’t be mad at you, which will only make you feel worse.


You consider growing out your armpit hair, but you know it wouldn’t look cool on you. There would be chunks of deodorant in it and everything.


You drink your whole milk latte, even though you know it will give you the shits.


It does.


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