Keep your head on a swivel for settlers, and no — we ain’t talking pioneers or Catan. The settler is a lady friend who, after one too many sessions of nookie, starts catching the feels.
You may not mind at first. She’s cute, she makes mac n’ cheese with no pants on, and she’s DTF. It’s all good; it’s always ballin’ to have bitties in your room.
Then it begins.
Brothers take notice of bobby pins and hair strewn about the house. Then her clothes start accumulating. Her toothbrush makes its way into your cup. She mysteriously takes down her “single” relationship status. The house composite now has a picture of her neatly Hello Kitty-taped next to your face.
That, my friends, is a settler.
‘Tis a unique problem, but a common one nonetheless. In fact, The Weeknd even wrote a song about it called “Twenty Eight.” If you find yourself in this situation, know that you’re not alone and there’s help for you yet.
When faced with a settler, you need to understand how a settler thinks. First, she’s a girl, which means she’ll be scared of spiders, the carcasses of small animals, and human excrement. Any good frat basement should have all three. Keep quality samples stocked in the freezer for easy access, and place them in out-of-the-way areas to repel her but also prevent any suspicion that you might be actively trying to rid her.
Second, leverage the fact that she’s attracted to you. As a precaution, make sure to first verify that she is neither a murderer nor an attractive homeless person trying to squat on your land. Once that’s confirmed, it’s simply a matter of making yourself less attractive — less yourself. Encourage acne and obesity by upping your junk food consumption and decreasing shower time. Pay attention to subtle things like bad breath, dirty fingernails, and Crocs with socks.
IMPORTANT: while you may think it might pay off to be subtly mean to her directly, she may interpret that as a “neg” and assume you still like her. Instead, beef with her friends behind her back. Be loud. Be creative. Bring a vuvuzela. You know, the classics.
If that doesn’t work, there’s always a brother down for sloppy seconds. Find your resident player, give him the low-down, and cross your fingers. Hopefully his dick game on point. From there, she’ll hopefully migrate from your domain to his. This also has the added benefit of you and this dick-slinging champ now being brothers twice over — frat and eskimo.
In the event that these tactful measures haven’t gently nudged her out the door, there’s always the nuclear option: be her dream man. Open doors for her. Bring her to Cabo. Call her “princess.” You’ll now firmly place yourself in her league, and thus she won’t be grateful for you. Then she’ll leave you for Chad from Sig Chi even though you just bought her a ring. It was a special ring, with a meteorite in it because you think diamonds aren’t worth how much she’s brought you. You wanted to show her she was your star. When she leaves, you’ll buy warm 40s from 7-Eleven and drink them with fries and cold pizza. You realize now that she’s gone, you want her back. Her smell lingers on your pillow and torturously tugs at the deepest recesses of your soul. Why, Jenna? Why? I loved you. We were supposed to be college sweethearts. We were going to have children together: a girl and a boy. A Goldendoodle named Scout, too. Now I have nothing. Your soft, petite hands held my dreams and my heart, and in one fell swoop you crushed them both. Those same hands now rest on Chad’s toned swimmer’s chest. I sit in front of a computer writing my pain away but it always returns. It hits in waves like a tsunami. Jenna, I made a mistake. Come back to me. Please Jenna. Please..
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