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Sex, snacks and Snapchat

It’s late afternoon in the North Lake dorms. The kitchen sink is full of dishes, the couch is still covered in mysterious stains, one of our toilets is still broken, and “Grey’s Anatomy” is on a continuous loop in the living room.
This is our Garden of Eden. Our shared place of peace where we make dinner that heavily consists of pasta and our words of frustration towards the opposite sex.
This is home to four girls who are figuring everything out from boys to chemistry and clumsily falling somewhere in between. It’s just like “Sex and the City,” only not as glamorous and I don’t think Carrie Bradshaw ever lived off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a consecutive week.
The 90’s just seemed like a much simpler time. People talked face to face, Mark Wahlberg was at his prime, chokers and dark lipstick were innovative and everyone wanted a group of friends that did nothing but sit in a coffeehouse all day and talk about their problems.
But the best part about the 90’s was how effortless love seemed to be. Things were spontaneous, people met on the street and talked on the phone! It was a time when people embarrassed themselves, wrote songs for one another, made out with Heath Ledger after a paintball game, finally kissed Josh on the top of the staircase and anyone who was anyone wanted to be Meg Ryan. If you don’t know what I’m talking about that’s your first problem.
But today, we accept so much less than what we actually deserve. We’ve replaced love letters with Snapchat. Texting is like analyzing hieroglyphics and we’d much rather hide behind the mask of our phone screens than ever run the risk of getting hurt, but finding something real.
We are trapped behind the glass and artificial light like an awkwardly positioned mannequin in a store window.
Technology and love go together like mayonnaise and Honey Nut Cheerios. I know some weirdo out there disagrees with me, but I have a feeling he is in prison and is unable to read this.
Social media is, in reality, a false prophet that preaches unification and acceptance but heavily sedates the dating world and we’ve swallowed one too many jagged little pills.
We’re now addicted to the emojis, memes and mind-games that parade around under the guise of romantic language. Side effects include unanswered text messages, unpredictable mood swings and crippling self-doubt.
Here is a perfect example: meet my roommate. We’ll call her Oprah. She’s 20, naturally blonde, eats bread without ever gaining weight and if we ever ran out of dishes we could easily use her stomach as a serving plate, that’s how flat it is.
I’ve been trying to get rid of her to preserve my own self-esteem for weeks. No luck yet, but I’ll keep you posted. Here she is standing in our kitchen putting her hands in her hair and making distress calls like some kind of exotic bird. “Boys are the worst!” she cries, her sentiments echoing off the minimally decorated walls.
Her exasperation toward the male gender and their inability to say what they mean is equal parts baffling and hilarious.
Boys should be banging down the door to talk to this girl and here she is completely imprisoned by a technological merry-go-round of insecurity and misinterpreted media. In this particular episode, however, she’s cursing my own doe-eyed insolent boy.
This particular brand has a hipster beard, esoteric tattoos and oozes with narcissistic charisma that makes him almost seem genuine at times. His hobbies include using texting as some kind of Chinese torture device, working on his car and sticker collection. Don’t judge me.
I just want to know why we do this to ourselves. Why do we sit and stare at these tiny screens with these tiny words that are so inconsistent and incoherent? Most of the time it’s like reading subtitles for a French film, with our eyes and hearts strained after it’s over.
Of course in the French film, the people are happy and in love because they communicate like normal people, which leaves you sitting on the couch fuming in disdain.
The anticipation of waiting for a text is like waiting for a pot of water to boil. Only the pot is evil, sprouts legs, walks over and dumps itself all over you, burning all exposed skin. This is only after it tells you this whole thing was probably your fault and you aren’t worthy of love.
It’s not your fault and you are worthy of love. Don’t listen to a possessed pot and don’t gauge your self-worth based on how fast someone texts you back. Guard your heart because it’s worth guarding and don’t think the only way to be liked is to be easily accessible like a pizza delivery menu.
To all the young people out there looking for love over the phone, I say this: get off Tinder –seriously, it’s not doing you any favors– hang out with your parents, because they’re actually cooler than you think they are, and if your phone dies, the sky isn’t falling.
The sky is actually pretty amazing if we look up long enough to notice it. And if you ever want to talk, meet at my house for some wine and several pizzas. You don’t even have to shave your legs. I’m talking to you, boys.

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