To All the Frat Boys I've Digged Before

In celebration of my delight in the 2018 teen romance film, “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before,” I am finally humbled enough to honor a very special demographic at Central Michigan University-may each of you never actually read this.

Photo Courtesy by Samantha Shriber

Based off the 2014 young adult romance novel by Jenny Han, the film illustrates the life of Lara Jean through an aesthetic that is far too precious and floral-covered to ever match my own.

As opposed to hollering about the dudes she loves in damp restrooms over half-emptied cups of rum and coke or vodka and sprite, she prefers hiding away love letters to them in a teal box.

Although I am no longer a sixteen year-old with an overpowering devotion to Molly Ringwald and Drew Barrymore movies, I continue to appreciate the various infatuations that flow in and out of life.

To say I’ve been in love before may not be entirely accurate in my case. But it is safe to admit I have had a fair share of campus crushes who may or may not have received double messages from me after 3 a.m. on a weekend.

So I commence on making what could possibly be one of the biggest-but most exhilarating-embarrassments of my journalism career, by applauding the fraternity brothers in my life.

This is my sonnet to the fellas on the golf course hitting holes galore, the gentlemen teaching me how to smoke cigars on their porch and the Ralph Lauren consumers letting me dance throughout truck beds and black-lit basements (despite not having letters of my own).

Once again, I pray to every possible higher power that you are all too busy shotgunning keystone beer and playing Fortnite and Euchre to even consider reading this.

 

To the Start of it All, Woo,

Freshman year at Central was centered on several core practices, like attending at least every other Pint Night at Wayside Central and learning how to alter your bathroom door into a water pong table.

But before I could ever master the art of being a thriving college student, I was a terrified freshman in an orange romper who left the nightclub before midnight because it was passed my bedtime.

Photo Courtesy by Samantha Shriber

It was during that night that we met at a grilled cheese fundraiser. We bonded over a shared passion for re-watching “Game of Thrones” episodes and under agreement that Florida senator Marco Rubio should have received the Republican nomination for United States President in 2016.

For a brief moment, you took me under your wing and taught me to preserve my emotions for men with ambitions and intellect as large as my own.

You taught me to seek out those with political mindfulness who checked stock market reports every morning, as well as to value insightful conversation and dialogue over all things.

Even to this day, my heart belongs to the boys in ironed outfits that provide my weekly updates on the economy and who actually comprehend the difference between using “your” and “you’re.”

 

To the One That Didn’t Stick Around, Damn,

You caught me after a Galentine’s Party wearing only a bodysuit in the February snow, along with a pair of high heels terrorizing my toes and a stomach anchored down by Pink Moscato and too many slices of chocolate and strawberry cake.

You loaned me your puffy coat and later we sat on my bed sipping on cans of sparkling water.

You complimented me on being a free spirit and listened enthusiastically as I told you about all of my favorite things, like being an aspiring journalist, hiking in Shenandoah National Park, my empowering gang of feminists and late night expeditions to McDonald’s.

I also hung onto your comments, like about how underrated Arby’s is as a fast food establishment and how the only pair of actual pajama pants you owned had camels on them.

We both agreed I have a ridiculous obsession with pink flamingos, plant children were much better than actual children and that running away to live out one’s days at Yellowstone National Park was the key path to a blissful life.

You eventually left, and although I don’t think about you, I hope your life is as cool as you were during my cloud nine weekend of gals celebrating gals.

 

To the One I’m Still Hung Up On, Oops,

Since this summer, my life has been different in Mount Pleasant.

I often find myself sitting in the coffee shop on Franklin St., ordering lattes and waffles with money I shouldn’t be spending and staring blankly into the whiteness of untouched Google Documents.

For the first time, I truly miss someone as opposed to only missing an unrealistic allusion of someone.

I miss you making fun of how I’m always broke and critiquing my unrealistic plans for the future, like wanting to move to Morocco to write poetry and master yoga or becoming a foreign correspondent in Afghanistan and Yemen.

You were a gravitational force reminding me of the importance of having a stable financial strategy while also introducing me to trap rappers and not being too upset when I messed around with your golf clubs.

Out of all the boys I’ve had feelings for, I hope you’re the last to read about how much I care.

Photo Courtesy by Samantha Shriber