You know this girl. You met this girl during college orientation: she was advising a group of fellow eighteen-year-olds on how to score fake IDs. (Her boyfriend was a pretty famous party promoter and knew a guy who knew a guy in Chinatown who charged $125 for a scannable Michigan driver’s license.) This girl loves organizing trips even though the Spring Break cruise to Puerto Vallarta was a small disaster. She has playlists with titles like “Our Pre-Game Is Your Party.” She gets upset when you don’t remember that she’s juicing right now even thought you watched her eat three Cheesy Gordita Crunches in the Penn Station Taco Bell last night. 90 per cent of the time she literally can’t even; the other 10 percent she just can not. You like her because she buys you tequila shots, is always down to dance, and never judges your late-night shame spirals at the bodega or your penchant for selfies. You know This Girl. If you don’t know This Girl, you probably are This Girl.
The last time you saw This Girl, she was scream-crying “I’M GROWN! I’M GROWN!” while standing on top of the bar at Wicked Willy’s. You’ve been slightly worried since you haven’t received a “sup betch” text from her in a couple of weeks; then again she constantly loses her phone and she tweeted about The Other Woman’s DVD release so you knew she wasn’t dead. Thanks to Instagram user “Miss Mary Massey”, you now have visual confirmation that This Girl is alive and well, though probably not for long. A vicious, previously undiscovered strain of chlamydia is most likely gestating in her body as we speak. You see, This Girl was drunk (we presume, we hope) and decided to do something very stupid: she ate a handful of chips — like 99 cent, your-mom’s-on-a-budget, the-party-hostess-promised-snacks, greasy soap flake gas station chips — OFF THE FLOOR OF THE METRO-NORTH TRAIN.
According to what Massey told Gothamist, that wasn’t even the worst of it. “I started recording her after she ate a $5 bill off the floor (Ed’s Note: you know as well as I know that This Girl doesn’t have $5 to waste as an amuse-bouche — she still needs to pay her dad back for all those cosmetology classes!) and when I asked her if she was OK, she asked me if I ‘knew who she was,'” Massey said. “Her friend that was with her was also straddling the guy next to her on the train. Way too turnt up for a Friday at 830!!” Okay, Miss Massey — what we do with our bodies on our way home in the lap of some gentleman whose name we think started with an “N”, maybe, is none of your business!
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