Someone made a complete schedule for Cuffing Season and holy shit, I’m already behind
I’m never gonna make it to the playoffs
I'm 24.5 years old, which means I've lived through 25 Cuffing Seasons now. Only like, 4 of them have been successful, and that was back when I was a young, hot co-ed and not the crusty media binch I am now.
Yet here we are, back in the throes of the darkest period of the year. No, not Macy's semi-annual doorbuster sale — Cuffing Season. Again!
And just to remind me (and probably you) about how single I am, some evil Twitter user had the nerve to create an entire schedule of the Season:
Preseason started today, and my ass didn't make Varsity. I'm basically the waterboy, or like, the nerd from student council who shows up to the game to report on it for the school paper or whatever.
Anyway, heavy-handed metaphors aside, the point is that things are getting serious out there and so many of us are bae-less.
Lest we forget why cuffing season is so critical, let's break down why this time of year is the only time worth being in a relationship:
1. It's sooo cold outside
I need to cuddle, and I will gain like 5-10 winter pounds so it's critical to capture someone with my Summer Look first. After work, I can't go spend my nights drinking summer spritzers on summer rooftop bars and making out with summer boys with summer names like Trent.
Instead, I just want to come home and cuddle with a dadbod named something like Joe or whatever.
2. There are so many disgustingly romantic activities
Could I make my best friend hold hands while ice skating around a giant Christmas tree and then kiss me afterwards? Sure. Is that what I'm trying to do? No, unfortunately I was not Born That Way™.
My platonic friends are great for shooting Fireball and the Mexican food Friendsgiving we're planning, but if I suggested we take a carriage ride through Central Park together, they'd probably throw me down the stairs.
3. Your family will finally shut the fuck up
This is most critical. If I had a dollar for every long-lost aunt who reminded me that my eggs are dying with every passing Christmas carol on the radio, me and my 24-year-old dusty-ass uterus would have enough money to hire an escort to come to all family engagements and pose as my boyfriend.
But seriously, having a date on your arm, even if it's one you'd rather die than marry and/or inseminate you (so like, all of my exes), it's a Golden Ticket for shutting up your haters. Hear that, Aunt Joanne? Suck my dick, you ancient bitch.
But whatever. Maybe next year.
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