Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, nightlifers and nightlifettes, meet That Girl.

You may think you're on good terms with That Girl, but the That Girl you're familiar with is nothing but a facsimile, an imposter of the true That Girl.

Allow me to introduce That Girl with an inner monologue I had with myself -- "This Girl" -- just this past Friday afternoon:

This Girl: Wow, what a week. First, I saw my friends get plastered Wednesday afternoon as I remained sober, trying to be a Good Girl.
That Girl: Let me out!
This Girl: Then, I pulled an all-nighter to cram for that Stat 100 exam.
That Girl: Let me out!
This Girl: I've had it. Time to get funk-ay.
That Girl: YAYYY!

That Girl has a few distinct characterizations, some of which may be applicable to you:

First of all, That Girl understands that, given the right combination of cheap jungle juice, pregaming and sleep deprivation, sometimes, with an emphasis on sometimes, a little ass is better than having some class.

And, like This Particular Girl who may or may not have morphed into That Girl on Friday night while at a house party, That Girl understands that yes, you may look a little ridiculous teetering around on three inch heels while attempting to dance to some classic Michael Jackson, but not everyone is born a Fly Girl.

Also, That Girl realizes that yes, that freshman over there may look like he or she is incapable of carrying any sort of intelligent conversation while gazing, eyes glassy, at the crowds of people milling around the keg. However, That Girl is confident, no, wait, damnit, she's SURE that freshman probably has a lot on his or her mind. So of course That Girl is going to plop herself down on that navy futon and introduce herself, starting with name, birthday, semester standing, major and relationship status.

And, according a facebook.com group that This Girl is a member of, That Girl goes "through [her] entire phone book calling everyone [she] can possibly find...including [her] mother and all [her] ex-boyfriends." That Girl realizes the importance of the cellular device during her prowls through State College and makes maximum use of her own personal "I'm-going-to-regret-this-in-the-morning-but-right-now-who-cares" phone book. Good for you, That Girl. You make those calls.

Then, That Girl understands that yes, she may be walking home the next day in a shirt that isn't hers, said three inch heels, and an oversized belt wrapped haphazardly around her waist, but that "Walk of Shame" builds character, morale and humility. Yes, That Girl may receive catcalls and humiliation, but when did a little bit of regret ever hurt anyone? Hold your head up high, That Girl, and strut your stuff, one pointy-toe shoe at a time. You got some, and they're all just jealous.

That Girl finishes off her weekend with an extremely obnoxious, self-centered album on Facebook with a moving title like "Messed Up Again," "P.S. We Pregame Harder Than U Party," "The PSU Shitshow" and/or some wild statement, in quotes, that apparently was funny that night but no one else will understand. That Girl is on the inside of the joke, and we're all on the outside.

I realized I may, in fact, be "That Girl" after my slightly off-color remarks were called "provocative" by a fellow Collegianite the day after after I unleashed That Girl in State College for the first time this semester...

So say it with me, That Girl(s) of the world: I'm proud to be That Girl.

Until next weekend at least.

--Lauren