A close friend of mine went through a break up last
semester, and within two hours of the blow fell into the cyclical motions of
getting over her ex.

We all know the cycle, or at least we think we do.

First, she updated her Facebook relationship status.

50 likes, 23 “awww”, and 12 “finally” comments later, she
spent hours tearily scrolling through their friendship page. Though an
emotional purgatory for all parties involved and uninvolved, this break up was
shaping up to be fairly average.

That is until three weekends later when my friend decided
she was ready to, “get wrecked and hit up players” again.

After two weekends of watching her drown under a pile of
Russell Stover chocolates and Jodi Piccoult novels, I jumped at the prospect of
“getting wrecked” and “hitting up players”; whatever those things entailed, and
we were off.

We slipped into our tube tops, stretched them over our asses
like dresses, and listened to Pandora Station, “Beyonce ““ Single Ladies”. Our “Daddy issue” vibes were nearly potent
as we walked down Ostrom Ave.

Before stumbling into our swanky and lowly lit destination,
I asked her what she wanted from the night. Spoken like a true emotionally unstable floozy, she replied,
“I’m looking for a good time, and a man the color of my boots ““ Black.”

Before I could ask what the hell that meant, she stumbled
inside and became what we now call the “globe trotter”.

This vulgar, racy and blatantly racist third step in the break
up cycle was new to me. We’ve all heard about the girls that key cars in
revenge, sleep with best friends, or eat unimaginable amounts of food, but
never have I seen a girl target men of different ethnic backgrounds as a form
of emotional recuperation.

The next morning, as I drove past Syracuse’s mass “walk of
shame” population, I spotted my friend’s victim from the previous night. Tall, dark, and handsome. In her defense, she really out did
herself. With Fab Melo status height, and uncontainable swag, she did exactly
what she sought out to do.

That night rolled into the next four weekends, and my friend
repeated the cycle with admirable enthusiasm.

Each night she would announce her prey with one simple catch
phrase, “Salsa is alright, but I prefer bedside Guacamole!”, “I’m like Hanukah,
but I give up my gifts in one night!”, “Call me Mao, because tonight I’m
getting Zedong!”, and my personal favorite, “Do you like pocky? Let’s
f***”.

Syracuse, as a second semester sophomore, I’ve seen my fair
share of break up recovery plans. This is without a doubt the first of it’s
kind. Looking back, I wonder if maybe I should have stopped her. But the truth
is, this is the one time in our lives where globe trotting and racist catch
phrases have little to no consequence.

My friend thrust aside the typical break up cycle, and did
something for the hell of it. Four weekends in a row she woke up mostly
satisfied in her choices, and on that fourth Saturday she woke ready to move on
and forget her ex.

Normally, I would never admit that her insane and R-rated
methods have a moral, but this time they proved worthy of commendation. Right
now, it’s important to do some things out of step, because if we trip, we have
lots of time to patch up our knees.

So, if you haven’t already; throw out the cycle, get wrecked
and hit up players.

Kara McFarlane is a sophomore television, radio and film
major (assuming “radio” is even a thing anymore). She would like to
dedicate this column to her friend’s nightly victims, for their ignorance to
female vulnerability. Kara can be reached at cnmcfarl@syr.edu. Follow Kara on
Twitter at @karanicolemcf.

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