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"I am the token nice girl!" She defenselessly and drunkenly shouts at me when I tell her she isn't exactly what I would call "nice."

Alcohol brings out and accentuates all sorts of socially annoying characteristics, but with her it's worse than normal. With frizzled brown hair, a block-shaped faced, and a few too many extra pounds, she sees herself as the female version of the stereotypical "nice guy." When out at bars with her best friend--a hot, thin, Britney Spears look-alike--men constantly approach them, though she knows none of them are interested in her, with their eyes and words directed towards the irresistible lure of beauty. Some nights this rejection becomes too much, and she makes an excuse and runs off to the bathroom to shed tears, her friends clueless of what it must feel like to be so obviously unwanted and undesired.

She's ignoring me now, her focus on a frat boy sitting next to us. She's derailing him for his sexist comments, explaining how she is a Women Studies major and knows all about guys like him.

"Now buy me a drink," she orders him, while I roll my eyes.

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