She was the only other female in my brother’s posse of yuppie post-grads. To her, this meant we were immediately close-talking, arm-linking, hair-touching best friends. To me, this meant if we experienced the apocalypse, and only my brother’s third floor condo in South Boston survived, I could push the whole “repopulating the earth” responsibility off to someone else. She came complete with a conversationally slutty boyfriend; you know, the stud who can wink with both eyes, who hugs you long before you’re comfortable with pressing your lady humps against him and who has the uncanny ability to turn everything from Capri Sun to Charlotte’s Web into a sexual innuendo. He’s the guy who, even under the watchful eye of his girlfriend, rivals God Himself in ability to knock up girls solely through dialogue.

But aside from her obvious flirtation with my happily engaged brother, and debatable flirtation with my happily heterosexual self, she seemed entirely harmless. I resolved to be friendly. But then I heard it. In fact, Harvard Square heard it.

“BUT I’M SO MMMM [violent sniffling] I LOVE YOU SO FAFAFAFA I DON’T KNOW HOW I MMMMM …”

Over the sputtering and whimpering, my brother’s roommate Marco shouted at me, “You’re a girl, aren’t you supposed to help her?”

Dearest Marco, I plan to teach my offspring the value of a dollar by opening a child-labor workshop in my basement. When I witness a toddler poking an electrical socket, my only concern is if my camera is in focus. I am as sensitive as a decade-old scar, and possess a similar degree of comforting capabilities. No. I will not help her. Besides, if I get too close, she might get me wet.

When my brother suddenly appeared at the front door, female #2 immediately stopped crying. In a compelling attempt to convince him she had not shed a tear, she tackled him to the floor and started kissing his face while straddling him. Bent over, with her lady hump in the air, exposing 90 percent of her red thong, an image of an ostrich appeared in my mind. I wondered if it was hunting season.

Conversation Whore took this opportunity to quietly ask if I succumbed to the social norm of panty-wearing.

As I watched her stumble around, all red and glossy like Frankenstein during a hot flash, it hit me: I couldn’t believe the Drunky Drunk Crying Girl persists after college. I guess I had assumed that along with her diploma, she received a stipend of dignity and self-confidence. Or I had hoped she had fallen off a cliff.

So, I did some sociological research. The DDCG has her roots somewhere. She is a thriving breed, and therefore must have a past, present and future. So, I present to you, fine reader, the Evolution of the Drunky Drunk Crying Girl.

Birth: DDCG is a hybrid of the larger scientific families of Dramatis Unprovokus and Unus Shotus Wonderus. Unfortunately, I found no discernable pattern of symptoms of future DDCG status at birth. I figure this is an evolved protective mechanism, to prevent parents from ending it there.

Youth: I discovered the pubescent DDCG in her natural middle school habitat: the bathroom of a brightly lit “Under-the-Sea” themed gymnasium, complete with construction-paper crabs, pirate-clad art teachers telling 10-year-olds to stop grinding up on each other and the delicate aroma of blossoming hormones and unkempt sweat glands. She had just completed crying off all her blue eye glitter because Rob was “freak dancing” with Sarah. In a moment of uncharacteristic compassion, I offered her a tissue from her own bra. She confessed she was the first girl in fifth grade to say “I love you” to her older, more mature seventh grade boyfriend, and all he gave her was a cold sore on her lip. I told her to enjoy it while it was north of the border. She came back by calling me Andre the Giant. I told her I was too old to be insecure about my height, and locked myself in the stall because I had something in my eye.

Pseudo-adulthood: I found her this past weekend at a pledge party, dressed like a Catholic school girl who had fought a shredder and lost. She was convinced she could go shot-for-shot with every guy in the room, but after her third shot of Malibu, I found her “freak dancing” with Sarah on a dicey makeshift Beirut table to the delight of a mob of salivating freshmen. 10 minutes later, I discovered my dear friend DDCG on the floor of the bathroom, makeup smeared, cuddling with the toilet. Wait 15 minutes. She got bumped into by a football player, sprayed him with mace and stormed out of the fraternity screeching about escaping certain death. I think I passed her on the way home, being dragged towards North Campus by a sketchy prefrosh who was obviously charmed by her wit and personality.

Adulthood: I considered hitting up townie bars in pursuit of her, but my height, red hair and exaggerated facial features reminiscent of Sailor Moon render me a natural target for leather-fringe-sporting or burlap-sack-bound 60-something fetishists. Sorry, but my desire for journalistic prowess gets trumped by my aversion to lines like “you got yourself some powerful legs” and “my daughter’s friends don’t look like you.”

So I did what any respectable journalist would do.

“Mom, what do Drunky Drunk Crying Girls do when they get older? Do they ever fade away?”

Without hesitation, Momma Kath hit me back: “No, hunny. They join the country club. I have about four in my nine-hole golf club, and honestly, I can’t get enough of them. They get wastey-face at the annual Christmas party and hit on Santa’s elves. They down enough vodka martinis at dinner to paralyze a horse. They drunk dial their daughters during the semiannual breast cancer fundraiser. And eventually, they get arrested for jumping out of the bushes on Halloween and scaring little children … stark naked. God, I wish my camera had been in focus.”

Shannan Scarselletta is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at sms254@cornell.edu. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.