A Hoe Never Gets Cold: One Girl’s Mission to Avoid Large Winter Coats as Temperatures Drop

By Anonymous

As the temperatures drop below 40°, the trees become barren, and the Canadian geese once again swarm Comm. Ave, I simply refuse. I refuse to layer, no, not like this. I can’t let all my slayages be ruined by bulky winter coats! How will anyone be able to tell I’m serving with about three pounds of down-fill engulfing my body?

January 15th, 2015. You know how some moments in your life just stick out to you? I’ll never forget where I was, and how I was forever changed by a simple string of silly words: “It’s cold outside, but I’m still looking like a thotty, because a hoe never gets cold.” This random lady off Vine, who I later learned was rapper Cardi B, was RIGHT. But, let’s be honest, I was in middle school, what the hell was I going to do with that mantra? I mean, I seriously thought ripped skinny jeans from Hollister was an act of rebellion. But it’s nothing, seriously nothing, compared to where I am now at BU. The conditions have always needed to be just right. Can I brave the Comm. Ave shuffle and slay in the winter?

So now approaching winter 2023, I’m truly at a crossroads. The North Face winter jacket my mother forced upon me as a lousy excuse for a Christmas present hangs in my closet. But no, I will never give in. Now is my time to wear as little clothes as possible in the wintertime. I will not let everyone else win. I don’t care how cold I’ll be, I’m determined to serve as hard as possible. So I strut out of Sleeper Hall confidently, rimless sunglasses on (it’s nighttime), and headed out east. Just for a little walk.

Oh, what was I wearing? Why, thank you for asking—a scarlet red cropped tank top with “Boys Cheat” writing in silver glitter, a denim microskirt, and high heeled cowboy boots. On top of it all, I wore a cream-colored crochet monstrosity that resembles a sweater, somewhat (it was thrashed to the high heavens), that I “borrowed” from my friend. Just in case I did get a bit chilly, you couldn’t say I *wasn’t* wearing a sweater.

And you know what? Miraculously, I felt fine. Fantastic, even. I actually felt as if I’d transcended into a being of pure light as I jaywalked across BU Bridge and caused a massive traffic pileup. I glided down the sidewalks in a fugue-like state, embracing the warmth within. I stole a few dirty looks from passerbys in ankle-length coats and little old ladies in the scarves they knit themselves (I’d debated asking one to knit me a scarf that I could then function into a halter top). 

I was not letting the cold weather win, and I was looking great while doing it. I was, arguably, the cuntiest person out of the entirety of BU that night. Historically the cuntiest to ever do it, if you will. I started to become aware of my surroundings, however, and noticed white specks falling from the midnight sky.

When I came to, I realized I’d been buried in a pile of snow on BU Beach. It was the morning after, and I had temporarily froze over during the first snowfall of the season.

The following week, a picture of me entirely frozen in my ultra-chic look appeared in that week’s “Comm Ave Runway” section of BU Today. Apparently, my response to every question was *teeth chattering*.

What should I wear next week? I heard there’s a Nor’easter.