I’m just gonna be straight up with you. We’re in the middle of a fucking inferno, my boob sweat could potentially flood a small country, and I’m writing this in between my nightly routine of Netflix and actually trying to chill, so let’s just cut the shit. I know you’re fully aware of the qualities of a fuckboy – hell, you’re probably creeping on the hoe in his Snapchat story as we speak. So honestly, I’ve got better things to do than waste my precious time explaining to you what you should already know.
I will say that we’re officially halfway through summer, so if you haven’t yet been ghosted by some fratty fuck in Chubbies, or you’ve been hit up like 12 times for discounted fat-shaving supplements, then tbh, what have you been doing? On second thought, teach me your ways. But since I have nothing better to do than wait for some worthless POS to view my cleave shot on my Snap story while catching up on GoT, I’m about to take a wild guess go in depth as to how your choice of summer fuckboy speaks volumes about who you are, which really just shows how much of a garbage human I am. Whatever.
The One Who Claims He Has a Boat
So you care way too much about what people think of you. But like, same same. Your social media presence is blasted in everyone’s face, sort of like this guys’ outdated fashion suicide of Sperry’s and pastel button downs. You probably put as much effort into your all-white Instagram aesthetic as you did into trying to get him to “maybe take you on his yacht” someday. You have an affinity for pink martinis with a flower on the rim, but solely for use on social media. You may pretend to live on a strcit diet of sushi and coconut La Croix around him, but in reality, there’s still Taco Bell wrappers at your bedside from last night’s “accidental” drunk food order.
The Foreign Fuckboy
Sure, whatever, your trip to Yacht Week in Croatia was unforgettable, but only because you outdid the number of Instagram posts that are socially acceptable for like, idk a year. #Unfollow. You met some slimy Italian dude while on vacation whose thighs were more tan than yours, which is disgusting. You were obvi looking for one thing and one thing only: a foreign fuck. You were somehow mind-fucked (or actually fucked) into thinking that this guy will still be around next vacay, and your friends are dreading your return home because you already started a countdown on Twitter for the number of days you’ll see him again. Newsflash: Summer flings were only cool in Mary Kate & Ashley movies. Read a fucking book.
The Wannabe Wolf of Wallstreet
Let me guess: You adore that while everyone else was downing Kamikaze shots, this guy was decked out in a business suit (ugh fine). You tend to go for the older men as seen from your latest subtweet that read, “literally just can’t stand immature idiots anymore.” You adore his ambition and the fact that he hashtags shit like #OnThatGrind and #DoItForTheHustle, but you mostly adore his wallet. Since meeting this guy, your Pinterest game has gone from hipster Urban Outfitter room décor to an entire board dedicated to Kris Jenner’s living room. He may unofficially officially constitute as a sugar daddy, but like, if he’s picking up the tab, count me in.
The Self-Described Personal Trainer
Quick Q: Are you bored? Do you, like, hate your life? Yeah, sure, this guy is hot and in shape and can possibly get you a 3-day trial pass to Equinox, but now you’re punishing us (your true friends) for like, wanting to maintain your summer body or whatever. It’s like you find pure joy in trying to make us all feel bad when you showed up to brunch last weekend only to opt out of the “bottomless” option. Like, huh? And to top it all off, you’ve now become the type of betch who literally won’t shut the fuck up about your new free personal trainer and how you crushed your latest workout. Honestly though, I’ll let this slide because once you realize you literally have nothing in common and that he just gave you the ‘eye’ for eating three fries, I’ll be ready with a bloody in hand.
The One You Hooked Up With in College
Look, betches aren’t perfect (but we’re pretty fucking close). But if there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s lowering our standards for a good cause. Like dick. Ok, so I low-key just described myself because, for some reason, I live for recycling hookups, but there must be someone else out there as into used goods as I am, right? Basically, here’s the deal. I’m a fucking good time, but mostly I just have chronic FOMO, and I can’t help it. The idiot from college is still impressed because I’m a successful (?) journalist, only gained like 12 lbs post-college, and I’m always down to schedule a blackout at approx. 10 p.m. In turn, he is forced offers to pay for my drinks, I get drunk and horny, and it’s a win for all, especially me, because that minor lapse in judgment didn’t cost me an increase in my number or a decrease in my (barely-there) dignity. I love me.
The One Who Surfs, Brah
This guy is like, the gateway into the fuckboy kingdom. Thankfully you don’t have to worry him eyeing other girls, but that’s only because his brain is full of contaminated salt water and his boy band blonde-tourage doesn’t leave his side until the tide comes in. It takes a special type of girl to tolerate this guy – you know, like a girl who also doesn’t care (is that even a thing?). This betch’s Instagram is full of photography and she judges every girl for wearing makeup to the beach (fucking sue me). But she’s also like naturally tan and has a good body without even trying, so I can’t hate her that much.
The Wearing a RompHim As A “Joke”
This guy is always the life of the party, so, I mean, this betch did something right. On the other hand, this guy still thinks that wearing pastel RompHims are like, fucking hilarious, and for some reason I’ll never understand, she eats that shit up. They generally manage to give everyone at the party a raging migraine, partially because of their incessant need to be the center of attention, but also because of that pastel ensemble mixed with last season Birkenstocks… and I’m not talking about her. The type of betch who lives for this annoying af dude is also on a constant blackout state from Friday to Sunday, but like same. Wait, am I talking about me again?