To my roommate and his girlfriend, yes, I was awake, and no, that’s not how it’s supposed to happen.
To the guy casually sipping on a beer while taking notes in class, you are truly a great gentleman and a scholar.
To my professor who said microscrote instead of microscope, is that some sort of Freudian slip?
Dear Ukraine: Can’t hang onto your own land? Crimea river. Try Putin on a happy face.
To the abortion protesters with the loud, uncontrollably wailing baby, you’re not helping your case.
Sorry I’ve been wearing skirts on my breezy bike rides to class, but hey, I’m making it to class in a flash.
Seriously though, when is Tar Heel Takeout going to start offering alcohol delivery? #thirstworldproblems
To the girl in the bottom of the UL stepping on the hole puncher, I think you’re doing it wrong.
To the pizza delivery guy who interrupted my class by saying, “Is this where the party’s at?” You would not BELIEVE how much the answer is “no.”
To the girl at McAlister’s, Jesus heard you say you can’t give up boys for Lent.
I’m a lifelong liberal, but living in Chapel Hill makes me want to vote Republican just out of spite.
To the bus driver who nearly closed the doors on me as I tried to exit: RU kidding me?
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Shoutout to the dining hall employees and the DTH for showing up during the snowpocalypse, further proving that all we need to survive is food and kvetches.
Dear Dook, Hinton James WALKED FROM WILMINGTON 219 years ago! You can’t make it 8 miles down the road?!
Pro-tip: The UNC Emergency Room has no sense of “emergency.” At least, not until you vomit all over their immaculate waiting area.
At least we can tell our kids that in our time we had to walk a mile in the snow to get to class ... Thanks UNC.
To all the people stocking up on milk and bread: I hope your milk sandwiches are delicious.
To the woman who rolled down her car window on Franklin Street to ask me where the Victoria’s Secret was ... just no.
To the girl outside the UL making a lactation joke: Your punchline wasn’t very funny, but you might as well milk it for all it’s worth.
The two kinds of people at Rams Head on Sunday mornings: Those who just got Jesus and those who need Jesus after last night.
Next time someone asks me what I’m doing after I graduate I’m going to respond with “When was your last bowel movement?” So we can both feel unaccomplished and uncomfortable.
To the guy beside me in astronomy: Are you from Venus? Because your atmosphere is noxious. Please bathe.
To my grandparents, since they asked: All I want for Christmas is to go home and not be accosted by Dance Marathon people for a few blessed weeks.
To the guy on the computer in Davis with his bike helmet strapped on, you are the new definition of safe search.
To whoever decided to hang Christmas balls in the Arboretum: You’re two months early and 6 inches too low. Sincerely, a jogger with a bloody nose.
To whoever TP’d our neighbor’s house with luscious ultrasoft toilet paper, our broke asses are sincerely grateful.
Only at UNC is the football team being bullied by the student body of nerds.
To the guy behind me in Analytical bragging about how high he got this past weekend: I think you’ve misunderstood the term “weed-out class.”
Pro tip: When talking about compromises in abortion legislation, try to avoid using the phrase “split the baby.”
People call me Macklemore in class ’cause I’m always like, “what what what what what what what what?”
