Dear Fugly Slut:
Let me first apologize for calling you a “fugly slut”; it was not my intention to insult you. Although we don’t know each other, I’m sure you’re quite pleasant and, if you do happen to be a slut, at least reasonably attractive. I led with this rather rude salutation simply out of concern for your wellbeing.
See, Regina George is going to be your roommate when you go off to college, and you need to be prepared; she’s what you’d call a “mean girl.” I know, I know, you think I’m crazy, but hear me out.
You were probably already excited to start your freshman year before you got your housing assignment—new friends, interesting courses, dollar pitchers on Tuesdays, whatever. Then you found out you’ll be living with this lacrosse player named Regina from Chicago, you two set up a time to Skype, talked for an hour, and SHUT … UP she’s amazing.
I mean, OK, the girl did meet John Stamos on a plane. John Stamos! Even I will admit that’s pretty sweet. And who knows what other members of the Full House cast she’s tight with? Plus she had to have her hair insured for $10,000 because of all these Japanese car commercials she was doing, and maybe she invited you to spend fall break hanging out at her 10,000-square-foot mansion with her and Amy Poehler.
But I still haven’t gotten to the best part, have I? No, that was when she told you, and I’m quoting here: “You’re, like, really pretty.”
Am I right? Goosebumps.
Regina George said you were pretty, not to mention that she loved your bracelet and your skirt, which was especially nice since it was just some plaid thing your mom used to wear in the ’80s. So what if she got a little Willem Dafoe-y when she thought you were agreeing about being pretty? The point is, now you’re BFFs. And that’s what makes it so hard to say what I’m about to next.
She’s telling people you’re a … well, you read the first paragraph.
I guess it’s not so much “people” as this diary thing she keeps. Actually, it’s a lot like a construction paper and glue stick version of Pinterest, something you don’t know about yet.
Holy shit. The Burn Book is Pinterest. How did I not see this before? That could have been me sitting atop a social media empire instead of writing letters to the college roommate of a fictitious character from a Lindsay Lohan movie. Thank God I can pretend Tina Fey’s writing is the only thing I love about it.
Ah, your gentle sobbing reminds me I’ve gotten off topic. My apologies.
Listen, your freshman-year roommate doesn’t have to become your best friend; in some cases, you’re better off if she doesn’t. This is one of those. Regina feeds on light and shits out Alaskan winter nights. She is, in short, a life-ruiner.
If you wear track pants or jeans on any day but Friday, she won’t sit with you in the dining hall. If you try to introduce hip new British slang into your social circle, she won’t hesitate to bury you. And if you tell her about the guy you like, she’ll make up stories about you stalking him and then sleep with him first—a problem in more ways than one if, again, you are a slut.
Now if she hasn’t already, Regina will give you this sob story about the time a bus hit her, claiming that it didn’t just fracture her spine and awaken her passion for blood sport but that it also changed her outlook on life. Don’t fall for it; it’s a Kalteen bar in a Slim-Fast wrapper. Because bitch will still straight mindfuck you if she sees you rocking a pair of hoop earrings. That’s her thing.
My advice would be to keep a low profile during the fall, spend as much time as possible away from your room (that sluttiness should come in handy), and look to move elsewhere for the spring semester. Whatever you do, though, you cannot tell her I sent you this letter.
She punched me in the face once, and contrary to what you may have heard, it was NOT awesome.