We wondered why it didn’t get painted over immediately. My first idea was that we finally did it. We finally managed to make everyone feel terrible and sad. But then I remembered how today was the first home football game and bros would rather stroll around with their Natty Lites and whine about how they are being misrepresented or otherwise question our syntax than threaten to spite-assault us or color over our work. It was a lazy ninety degrees and an all-day tailgate, so they just circled it for hours. They complained.
All we wanted this whole time was more bros to come to us. We’re really into bros, in case you didn’t notice.
It was my first tailgate, and I’m bummed that I’ve missed four years of legal open intox. I worked at the library until five and I changed out of my J.Crew Catalog Moonlight Model gingham into my “Expel Rapists” tee in the back office. Way too many uncatalogued Brahms 12”s saw my tits. I forget that when you don’t wear a bra it’s much harder to change in public.
Filled an empty can of beer halfway with Black Velvet. It was Those Guys Beer because I am
one of those guys that
enjoy fun, sports, & kickin’ back
and it was hot and I was warm enough to only need half of that half beercan of whiskey before I started feeling feelings. I felt the most feelings when Emily and Cortney and I were talking about, I don’t know, our periods or something on the lawn and an adult woman, as her adult husband looked away, pointed to our matching shirts and gave us her thumbs up. I had whiskey, I had sunshines, I had lady solidarity on sportsday and I had all of the feelings. I like tailgating, even though I was still convinced—in spite of the twenty thousand people on the campus lawns with cozied beers and frisbies in their fists—that I would get arrested for drinking beer on the sidewalk. I nestled it into my waistband just in case. I like tailgating because it’s like a daytime version of everything I love about co-op parties but with more bros and less getting groped by bros. Everything was perfect, kind of. Everything was hot and everything was whiskey out of a beercan, anyway.
We painted the rock in the middle of last night, kind of anxious because we were stealing it from Greek. We painted “Please Don’t Rape Us” over “Go Greek.” We didn’t think it would last til dawn, but no one touched it. Maybe this is the end of that hollowed campus tradition. Maybe every enthusiastic Spartan that lugs a gallon of paint to that stone for the rest of eternity will just feel terrible the second they read those words (in a spray shade named “Paprika” that Lucas always calls “Period”). Maybe they’ll turn around and never come back. Maybe no one will ever paint over it.
Sipping, sitting on the grass, we watched the pom pom girls. They’re like cheerleaders but more like rugby players but with more spangles and empty bottles of vodka everywhere. We’re ordering lavender pom-poms and stitching anarchafeminist applique to our tank tops. We are no longer just a girl gang, we are a squad.
Go team, et cetera.