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SUNDAYS ARE FOR-DHAm BRUNCH

humor

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409
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Fordham University

campus

- satire

SUNDAYS ARE FOR-DHAm BRUNCH

Madilyn Grey

12.3.17

Read time: 8 minutes.

In the girl code of things that align with the rules of feminism and the things that do not, doing anything on Sunday except for brunch is considered to be, like, so inconsiderate and selfish. At Fordham University the women that keep the betches in line are part of an elite group known as “The Group Text.” These are their stories.

Name: Lori Belmont
Date: December 3, 2017
Reason for brunch: Becky’s birthday brunch
Describe your Sunday in detail:

9:00 a.m.: I wake up Sunday morning to the sound of my alarm blaring, like, right in my ear, basically. Rudest awakening ever. No joke, I’m so hungover. I don’t deserve this right now.

9:02 a.m.: I roll over and see that solid four-out-of-a-ten Dalton I end up hooking up with at least once every weekend. He is closer to my phone on the bedside table than I am to turn off my alarm. Despite this, he continues to lay there comatose, pretending to still be asleep so he doesn’t have to move legit maybe two muscles and turn it off. It’s called a sit-up, Dalton, ever heard of it? Definitely not with that dad bod. I laugh at my own mental joke because I’m a comedian. Dalton breathes like a walrus.

9:10 a.m.: I gather all my belongings as that lard Dalton continues to lay there. I pick up four of his sweatshirts, a pair of his sweatpants, two t-shirts, and his toaster oven on my way out since he wants to play this game. I yell, “Bye, bitch,” as I walk out the front door. Never hooking up with him again (but probably, realistically, will next Saturday). I decide to take his mailbox too, just because I deserve it.

9:12 a.m.: Oh, my FUH-king GOD, I need an Advil stat. The fact that I am walk-of-shaming right now? Literally kill me. I’m waiting at a red light to cross the street when I see Debby from my biology class. God, I HATE Debby. Terrible hair. Smells like a salami. All around ew. She is absolutely judging me. I decide not to care because I got laid last night and you definitely did not with those loafers, Debby. The light turns green and we start walking towards each other. She waves at me and gives me a fake compliment on my booties. I can smell her salami scent the entire time. I consider telling her to shower more because I am such a good person. I’m just being real, it’s what everyone is thinking. But, I decide against it. I need to get ready for brunch.

9:45 a.m.: I come out of the shower feeling more renewed than my auto-subscription to E! News updates. All it took was 9 Advil, a line of adderall, a sacrifice to Satan, an ice cold shower, and a Diet Coke. The only thing left to do is to decide what I'm going to wear to Becky’s birthday brunch. A romper is a safe bet to get me four-hundred likes on an Insta post, but my flair jeans and Free People crochet top give me strong reason to believe I could pull five. I’m ready to make history today. Flair jeans and crochet top it is. Let’s ride.

10:45 a.m.: Me and my girls meet at Becky’s apartment. We have to make sure everyone gets to brunch together. We’ve only lived in New York for four years, so it still just gets so confusing sometimes. Only our closest group of girlfriends is coming today, so we just have to order eight Uber XLs to get us there. We are going to, like, the most expensive, most bomb brunch place in the city. I read about it on New Fork City. Offers unlimited mimosas and breadsticks. It’s about to go down.

10:50 a.m.: We want to take pics before the Ubers get here, but that slut Amy is late, of course. I literally hate her. She hooked up with my ex-boyfriend Brad once sophomore year. Brad and I dated for three entire weekends.

11:03 a.m.: We take seven thousand four hundred and sixty-one pictures before we go. Amy shows up just as the last Uber gets here. Skank.

11:11 a.m.: OMG EVERYBODY SHUT THE F*CK UP AND MAKE A WISH.

11:55 a.m.: We are finally being seated after we had to wait like 2 and a half minutes for the idiot hostess. This woman and Amy would make great friends, clearly. I tell the waiter as soon as I am seated that I need a mimosa ASAP.

12:10 p.m.: I’ve already downed two pitchers of mimosa. I joke that I may be little, but when it comes to drinking, I'm a tank. Amy asks if I just called myself skinny. This bitch.

12:45 p.m.: This brunch place is on fleeky. I have never experienced unlimited breadsticks before. They just keep bringing them. I imagine this is how a Kardashian is treated every single day. Well, at least Rob. Wait, also, we haven’t talked about if Kylie is actually pregnant or not. What's good with that?

1:30 p.m.: Okay, I’m bombed. I’ve been hitting on the waiter since mimosa number four and I think I’m on number 36 by now. I don’t even care that I got this drunk by accident. The only thing that matters is that I took a fire Insta pic before I swallowed roughly forty breadsticks whole. I need to wait until 5:30 p.m. exactly to post it. Prime Insta time, obviously.

1:40 p.m.: I call the waiter daddy as he brings me another bucket of breadsticks. He looks unamused but I know he likes that.

2:01 p.m.: KARMA IS REAL. Amy just ate sh*t walking out of the restaurant. I’m laughing so hard I start crying. Walk much, Amy?

3:15 p.m.: We get back to the Bronx and I’m feeling myself. I text Dalton to see if he wants to hang out. I decide I have no shame and I’ll just spend the majority of tomorrow hating myself for doing this.

6:45 p.m.: Okay, Dalton still has not answered my text. Not only inconsiderate, but also rude.

6:46 p.m.: I come to terms with the fact that Dalton is ghosting me. ME? Like WHY do bad things happen to good people? My roommates decide we should order sushi for delivery, drink wine, and watch sad romance movies to help me cope. Thank God they get me.

7:45 p.m.: Sushi arrives. Hashtag blessed. We decide the first movie for our marathon will be The Notebook, followed by The Last Song, topped off with Titanic.

11:35 p.m.: I decide love isn’t real and I will never find the Jack to my Rose. I will come to to terms with this one day. For now, all I need is my girls.


Graphics courtesy of Emma Carey