The Kenyon Girl

kenyon cool girl

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a Kenyon girl. Being the Kenyon Girl means I am a brunette, bespectacled, coastal elite who adores Peeps parties, Pinegrove, the Collegiate, and American Spirit cigarettes, who reads David Foster Wallace, drinks Natty Lights, is friends with all of the Fools but not in the Fools, loves to hookup before ignoring each other on Middle Path, and jams Peirce grilled cheeses and VI spinach and artichoke dip into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest Peircegiving while somehow fitting into the same cuffed jeans, because Kenyon Girls are above all hot. Hot and quirky. Kenyon Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Kenyon Girl.

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Meatshitter: A Parody


You will develop an intuition.

That is, you’ll learn to check Fusion first for pasta (unless you’re gluten free; then you stride to the private fridge). Then Vegetarian because they have what’s at International, but with more zucchini and cauliflower. International is hit or miss, and the lines are almost always long. If nothing looks good to you, there’s always cold cuts and salad and cereal. You’ll learn what you like. Peirce is good to us.


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