The Wasted White Girl
She is no stranger to the college bar scene. You can spot the Wasted White Girl on the dance floor of your local club, college bar, or house party; heels in hand, hair thrown inaponytail, drink(s) in hand. You could count the amount of fucks she gives on one hand, but it’s not necessary…the answer is ZERO! She can also be spotted in the bathroom, screaming into her cell at an ex or keeled over the toilet puking, mascara running down her cheeks. She makes her way through the crowded bar by hanging on to stranger after strangerasthough she’s navigating a human jungle gym; spilling her drink on shirts, laps, and, occasionally, in the hair of innocent bystanders. The Wasted White Girl has become such a pervasive model of inebriation that “white girl wasted” is now a thing.
At EVERY college bar there is that lone local lurking in the corner, usually an older man wearing a Hawaiian shirt drinking; on whiskey sour number six of Happy Hour. He sticks out like a sore thumb, but could care less. Tapping his fingers on his glass to the beat of the music, he looks on fawningly, the way your grandfather did at your high school graduation or the day you learned to ride a bike, into the mosh of prime, college bar appropriate, girls on the dance floor. This is how he reminisces about his own college bar-hopping days, that, or he’s just adding a few images to the spank bank for those cold, lonely nights. Avoid all eye contact or else you may be stuck listening to sob stories about his three failed marriages or how his son is in prison, or even worse, he could sneak attack you from behind on the dance floor, grinding his shriveled up package against your faultless ass. If he buys you a drink, kindly accept it, but beware…he may believe that he’s contracted a friend for the evening!