v.1 (Yiddish) to complain
CUAB, we finally give you permission to stop trying.
To the girl in Lenoir that referred to the Beatles song “Hello, Goodbye” as “that song that was made for Target commercials”: Drop dead.
To the random girls belting out Christina Aguilera ballads in our driveway at 11 p.m.: Friendly Lane is NOT a rehearsal space for He’s Not rejects.
Dear roommate: I can hear you and your boyfriend even when my headphones are in. And I sure as hell can see you. Just stop!
Was that guy walking an aardvark?
To the Loreleis — starting off dance marathon by singing “Misery” and “Empossible” was just plain mean. Cut the dancers a break!
Blackboard, you will be missed; your class roster feature has assisted me in performing countless Facebook stalks over the years.
The only thing we learned from State’s fake DTH is how awful their real paper is.
To the frat boy from my learning class who asked if cocaine can sober you up: Is it last year already?!
Dear email@example.com: You can’t just break up with Blackboard because Sakai promises “greater flexibility and control, an expanded tool set, and long term sustainability.” That just makes you a slut.
To the assholes throwing water balloons from the top of Avery on a cold night, is there not any other way you could get a girl’s attention?
Last year, I led the ACC with two kvetches per week. Now, I haven’t had a kvetch in weeks. I’m transferring!
To the guy sitting in front of me in class: I know you think our class assumed it was porn when the sound of a girl screaming came from your computer. I also know it was actually a Justin Bieber video.
To my Poli Sci professor who raves about being such a hardcore liberal, you spelled Barack Obama’s name wrong in all of our lecture notes.”Barak” would be disappointed.
Dear Rick: Just because you lost, doesn’t mean you should spend all your time now complaining about student organizations via Twitter. #getalife
I have a problem with the fact that the only attention I get from men at this school is from construction workers who think I don’t understand what they say about me.
To the drunk girl climbing into the fire truck after the alarm was pulled at the frat party: No, that isn’t your ride home.
Facebook statuses of many other seniors make me feel slightly better knowing that, unfortunately, I am NOT the only senior who hasn’t received basketball tickets.
Send your one-to-two sentence entries to firstname.lastname@example.org, subject line ‘kvetch.’
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