To Northwestern’s Quarter System, The Crusher Of Spirit, The Bringer of Late Nights Crying to “You Are Beautiful” By Christina Aguilera. On Repeat.

Time to cry in the shower while listening to Adele again.

It’s the end of May, and with it comes the flowers in bloom, the inconsistent sunlight of the Chicago sky, and the sound of graduation caps being thrown into the air in happy rejoice. This is a good time. This is a happy, carefree time. This is a time of new beginnings and new hopes that OH WAIT A FUCKING SECOND I HAVE TWO 15-PAGE PAPERS DUE NEXT WEEK AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS THROW A FUCKING BONG OUT THE WINDOW.

I’m not over-reacting. Okay, I am.

The Five Flavors of Motherfucker

Indulge your synesthesia. We’re categorizing the most unpalatable people.

An industrial-size salty motherfucker

Salty Motherfuckers
Let me take you back to the diving board at your local swimming pool. You’d jump, swim to the ladder or the edge, climb out, and then get in line, jump, swim, climb, repeat. There’d be a pretty regular line that formed. But then once, you’d do the sweetest cannonbellywatermelopener dive known to mankind — maybe you’d take a little longer getting out of the water, or you’d stop to bask in compliments from your mom. This is when the Motherfucker would strike. You’d just be getting out of the water when out of the corner of your eye you’d see the kid that jumped in after you swimming to the edge with the urgency of the Space Race, yanking himself out of the water, and powerwalking (or even running, the bastard!) with one greedy eye on YOUR SPOT in line, and the other greedy eye checking back to see if you were gonna try and polite-fight him for it.

As if that weren’t bad enough, if he stole your spot, he’d get on the board and spend ten minutes debating what kind of jump to do with his friends (who were probably hanging on the lane line), while inside you’re screaming, “Accept that any way you flip is going to end up as a belly flop, before I come up there and push you off!” At Northwestern, you can identify these bitchwaffles pulling the same maneuver in the stir-fry or hot cookie bar line. This is why they are Salty Motherfuckers: pouring salt onto a wound is not really dangerous in the long term, but it’s pretty damn agonizing at the time. It makes you want to throw that aforementioned metaphorical salt back into their beady eyes, because it is as harmlessly obnoxious as the Salty Motherfucker.

Even her hair-tests came back positive for motherfucker

Savory Motherfuckers
Hey, remember when Oprah Winfrey had a hissy fit because a closed store wouldn’t reopen for her? Remember when Oprah Winfrey took credit for giving away shit that wasn’t hers? Remember when Oprah Winfrey existed? Yeah. Believe it or not, there are people so pampered that they will throw a tantrum when the Pier1 cashier can’t cater to their every whim by returning an item without a receipt or after 90 days. These are the snarky suburban moms who turn PTA meetings into Attack of the Martyrs Episode III because Little Johnny Do-No-Wrong has excessive allergies, and therefore clearly nobody’s parents should be allowed to bring in homemade birthday cakes. Note to readers: if you are someone who complains about the preparation of truffle shrooms at five-star restaurants or demands compensation for the terrible injuries caused by eating subpar lobster, please put yourself down, because you are irreparably broken and probably in constant pain from your delicate sensitivities. I’d suggest that we make astronomically high maintenance a crime, but then we’d have to arrest them and listen to them complain that their cell wasn’t padded enough.

Proceed with caution, as it can be very difficult to discern the difference between motherfuckers and simple guidos

Sour Motherfuckers
They’re assholes and they know it. Anyone who is inexplicably, selfishly, mercilessly malicious should have both their tongues and their genitals removed without anesthesia. Humans have hearts. If you suck as a human being, you do not deserve to contribute to the gene pool for fear that your children will grow up to be the kind of Motherfucker that does terrible things to people without even having to rationalize them. Examples of Sour Motherfucking include using someone who cares about you, sabotaging someone’s lab, lying about an STD, ruining others’ reputations, and touching children where they should not be touched. To be clear: Tucker Max’s shocking shenanigans usually fall under the category of harmlessly unpleasant Salty Motherfucker. The despicable bitch that somehow wound up in your sorority who ran for Recruitment Chair so she could put the freshmen down is a Sour Motherfucker. It’s all about the motives.

Ross Packingham's image of the perfect woman

Sweet Motherfuckers
These are the breed of superhumans whose perfection we will never attain and therefore must criticize. They are effortlessly attractive, intelligent, accomplished, athletic, stylish, polished, and well-spoken. They do not trip over their words. They do not trip over anything. They are the parents who jog with strollers containing the adorably well-trained future polite society of Icelandic Snow Owl benefits. And you know they’re probably good in bed. Arguably the worst Motherfucker, these cuntmuffins won’t even give you the decency of visibly fucking you over so you can hate them. If you express your certainty that there is something “off” about them (the possibility that they are actually a robot), you will almost certainly be met with shock from the believers in the tenured reputation of the android, who will shun you as either insane or jealous. Sweet Motherfuckers are more like aspartame than sugar: fake, carcinogenic, and typically lacking in caloric content. Breathe, fellow fuckups of the world: at least we’re more idiosyncratic.

This Evanston Councilman hasn't smiled in over 17 years

Bitter Motherfuckers
The Evanston City Council says one of their most frequently asked questions is: “What’s up your ass?” Since they cannot diagnose it themselves, Sherman Avenue will: They are Bitter Motherfuckers, the species of Motherfucker so filled with regret that the only thing left for them to do is to ensure that everyone else ends up unhappier than Edward Scissorhands trying to masturbate; that is to say, as unhappy as they are. But it’s not limited to the former premed/prelaw students who resent that their focus and initiative (translation: staunch denial of their own humanity) during their college days allowed them a very comfortable life in WASP’s nests. Other Bitter Motherfuckers include Denny’s waiters, certain unsuccessful starving artists, and (understandably) anyone working in retail on Black Friday. The best way to deal with these Motherfuckers is to maintain high levels of happiness in spite of their best efforts. Yes, it’s hard to do when they’re busy removing kids’ rights to trick-or-treat, cohabitate like sardines, or party like it’s Y2K. But there is no better revenge than the confidence of knowing you have a hopeful future and a pleasant present. Schadenfreude, bitches.

Ask not what heinousness can do for you. Ask what you can do for your heinousness.

Wiz Khalifa’s “Roll Up:” A Literary Analysis

The muse quitely ponders his convoluted relationship

Some of today’s top hits make me want to do heinous things to adorable animals. We really can get enough of the Black Eyed Peas rhyming “Flow-joe” and “X-O” in “Just Can’t Get Enough,” and I’m still out hunting for the miscreant who let Selena Gomez out of the Disney dungeon in order to record “Who Says.” However, when I tune into the radio I can’t help but turn up the volume to a bass-pounding level immediately upon hearing the first deliciously melodious notes to certain songs. One of these titans of tuneage amongst sing-a-long powerhouses like “Rolling in the Deep” and “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)” is Wiz Khalifa’s “Roll Up.”

Cameron Jibril Thomaz a.k.a. Wiz’s voice is endearing and soulful as he tells the story of presumably male subject who is trying to explain to a female that he is dependable. Though the song is the musical equivalent to a priceless Vermeer, one major question remains in regard to the plot of its lyrical composition. Is the main character involved in a sexual relationship with his “shawty,” or is their affinity merely a platonic bond with the potential for penetration?

These are the burning questions that keep America awake at night.

From the onset of the song, Wiz Khalifa explicitly states that the female lead is in a relationship, as it is her anniversary, but “her man ain’t actin’ right.” This woman then boards an airplane to visit the narrator and the befuddlement begins. He claims, “When you at home that’s your man, soon as you land you say that’s all me,” suggesting that the narrator has the same (sexual) relationship with this woman when she visits as she does with her boyfriend at home. Yet this connection is never made clear.

In spite of this apparent conclusion, a question about the narrator’s intentions remains. The chorus does not paint the narrator as a villain who is attempting to steal his “homie” from her man, but rather a dependable guy who will “roll up” whenever this woman needs him. The narrator repeats, ” Whenever you need me, whenever want me, you know you can call me, I’ll be there shortly.” In the chorus, he makes quite clear that their friendship is the most important part of the relationship, even referring to himself as her “best friend.” Even if there is no chance of road head or Skype sex, this guy will be there for this stupid betch. If their relationship is already sexual, what does he have to gain by indulging her every whim? Why does he still promise that he will “roll up”? From the chorus it seems as though he has not yet consummated the relationship and their correspondence appears platonic, although he clearly yearn for her.

Both Khalifa's devotion and true genius are on full display throughout the song

Furthermore, the narrator utilizes buzzwords reminiscent of the sordid sexual escapades of two star-crossed lovers. When integrated into the story of the song, they initially appear ordinary, but when analyzed alone, the verses sound more conspicuous than sores on herpes-infected genitals. Words like “fucking” and “ride” refer directly to the act of intercourse, while a reference to “handcuffing” subliminally prompts listeners to think of their own steamy fantasies of light bondage. More subtly, in one line the narrator claims that this woman is “cooking eggs in the morning.” This statement could refer to the fact that she is hungry in the morning because she is ravenous after a night of passionate love making, or possibly the efforts of the narrator’s sperm to fertilize or “cook” her eggs. Based on these findings, I have come to the conclusion that these two people have engaged in sexual relations. Although this in never made explicit, the manner in which Mr. Khalifa portrays their relationship connotes a bond that could only have been formed by nights spent groping her incredibly hot and voluptuous body while Marvin Gaye’s voice drowns out screams of pleasure.

Now that’s fresh.