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.
