The trials and tribulations of being a SWUG

She has given up entirely on trying to look presentable for class. She buys Camel Crushes with virtually no shame. She maybe blacks out on a Monday. She isn’t interested in making any new friends.

She is a SWUG, also known as a Senior Washed Up Girl (the acronym doesn’t work with UVA nomenclature, I know, but FYUG just doesn’t sound as good).

As a born-again SWUG myself, I felt compelled to share with others what goes on in the life of a girl who’s pretty much done caring.

The author pictured here disappointing her mother and father one decision at a time.

You don’t really venture past your already established friends

FYI that THAPPA x3 sign is a joke. We stole it. If you are the rightful owners, please claim it with the knowledge we will make fun of you.

The other week, my apartment and the apartment across the hall had a pregame. For the first 2.5 hours it was just the eight of us plus some of our guy friends. That did not keep us from raging as if there were a hundred people there.

Perhaps it’s the disco ball we installed ourselves, perhaps it’s because we don’t really care about other people. All I know is that second year me would have been freaking out about the lack of people present at the party. Fourth year me DGAF.

You take ubers to and from inappropriate places

This past weekend, I ubered an absurd amount of times. Perhaps this was fueled by the snow, perhaps it was fueled by my laziness, perhaps it was fueled by swugginess. Either way, when you’re ubering from Virginia Ave to Trinity, from Trinity to Rugby Road, from Rugby Road to Beta Bridge Apartments, you’re probably being excessive.

It doesn’t extend to solely late night either: perhaps you find yourself on Wertland Street in the wee hours of the AM, itching for your bed and for your dignity, well, go ahead and uber home you All-Star, you deserve it.

Playing Odds Are is just your way of doing weird shit without seeming weird

Odds are I buy this whole rotisserie chicken from Bel-Air? Odds are I make my profile picture a picture of me in the Oakley’s from The Matrix? Odds are I get a lip tattoo that says “SWUG”? Odds are I lick a second-year Pika’s face?

Um, out of 6? Out of 4? Fuck it, out of 1?

Knowing all of the disgusting deals at fast-food restaurants

Wendy’s 4 for $4. BK’s 5 for $4. McD’s Pick 2. I remember when I used to make the journey to Bodo’s for an instagrammable turkey, egg white, avocado and tomato on wheat. Now I’m lucky if I manage to put on pants to go through the drive-thru of McDonald’s.

Bonus points if you manage to snap the geotag of McDonald’s – it’s so elusive.

Generally, just not giving a fuck

Let’s face it, you either have a job already or act like you have a job, and your actions reflect that. Overheard the other day: “I don’t remember the past three days of my life.” And, like, why should you? It’s your life, girl, you do you.

On that note, why care about anything? Your appearance? Fuck it. If feminism has taught me anything, it’s that I can look like a troll and you’re not allowed to say shit. Unless it’s on Yik Yak or What’s Goodly.

So when the second year in a fraternity remarks how he’s a “healthy second year” and you’re a…a…fourth year… You know what’s up He knows what’s up.

You’re a SWUG and proud… or at least apathetic about it.