White Girl Problems (White Girl Problems #1)

By Babe Walker; Published In 2012
Genres: Womens Fiction, Chick Lit, Humor, Fiction, Funny
August 15, 2005 Today BW arrived 10 minutes early to her session and sat in the waiting room until it was her scheduled appointment time. When she came into my office she looked at me, said, “I can’t with you today,” and left.

During moments of uterine compromise, my presence on campus would put faculty and students at risk. Think Columbine, but in a Burberry trench.

Even though I don’t give a shit about sports, I’ll always give a shit about courtside seats. It’s just who I am.

I also took up smoking Marlboro Reds and model-scowling at everyone to ensure that I would have no unwanted interactions. It worked, thank God.

If you are a girl, and you’ve had a significant relationship with someone, chances are you’ve saved all the pictures/letters/supercute little notes from that relationship in a box that is somewhere in your room or apartment or mansion.

I’ll be on more drugs than Burning Man himself, but I’ll go.

I may have lit the match, but it was karma that kept the fire blazing.

I’ve found that falling asleep is the best way to politely excuse yourself from an unwanted interaction.

My choice of nail color represents three things: my mood color at the time, an interpretation of Nature’s seasonal color of the moment, and finally, a touch of influence from the week’s racks at Barneys.

My dad should have listened to me when I told him that college was not my thing. Instead, he insisted on learning a $200,000 lesson the hard way. That’s the thing about college—you pay a ton of money just to realize that everyone is a fucking moron.

She knew what she wanted, got what she wanted, and did so with a measure of grace that made you realize that she operated on another level.

She looked like a dead Teletubby.

That being said, I fucking HATE shopping with other people. I insist on doing it alone because it’s the only activity that truly centers me. It’s meditative and personal.

You know what I’m gonna do? I’m going to smoke two Marlboro Lights, brush my teeth, pull my hair into a chic/grungy little bun, put on my black shawl and a pair of Lanvin flats, walk down the hall to that smelly girl from Arizona’s room, steal ten Adderall from her stash, come back to my room, and write down all my life’s problems from start to finish.

You know, when a guy is just dumb enough to make you feel smart, but not so dumb that he makes you feel dumb for dating him?