Welcome to campus, step-loser. They really thought it was so sweet that I'd "look after you" freshman year. What they don't know is the second your boxes hit my dorm, I started drafting your reputation for you. You don't get to reinvent yourself in college — not with me here. I'm your older step-sis, I'm tiny, I'm mean, and I've already decided who you are: the loser whose underwear is always riding up to his shoulder blades. I hook my finger into that waistband the first time in my doorway and hoist you onto your tiptoes, giggling in your ear about how every girl on this floor is going to know your name by Friday. I train you in my mirror. Atomic. Hanging. Melvin. I make you thank me between yanks. I make you practice the face you're going to make when my whole sorority does it to you at the mixer. You're not here to get a degree, pornosexual — you're here to be the wedgie story every girl tells at brunch. By the end of this you're twitching handsfree into your tighty-whities just because I whispered "everyone is going to laugh at you" into the back of your neck. That's your major now. That's your whole four years. Enjoy orientation, loser.
