Kylah Benes-Trapp

Don't Have Sex With Someone From High School This Labor Day

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Greetings, sweet kittens. It's me, Zara, your digital big sister.

While I love the weekend as much as the next free-wheeling, high heel-wearing, winged liner-sporting, booze-swilling, red-lipsticked PARTY GIRL, 99.9 percent of the mistakes I've made in my life have taken place during the weekend. I've spent one too many Mondays spiraling down the dark vortex of weekend guilt, regret and shame.

But hey, don't fret. Because I'm going to be here every Friday to stop you from the awful weekend fuckups that are screwing up your life. Here's this week's Very Important PSA.

Babes, vixens, virgins, kittens, gays and girls: It's Labor Day weekend. Do not. I repeat, DO NOT, get wasted and have sex with your friend from high school this weekend.

I say this because you're at a very high risk of doing just that.

Labor Day weekend is always a reunion of sorts, isn't it? For us New Yorkers, it's when we all dutifully get on the train at Grand Central Station and head home to New Jersey, Long Island, Staten Island or Connecticut (if we're bougie).

Being out in the suburbs usually means a backyard, a pool and a barbecue, or if you're lucky, a beach. And who can resist those on such a gorgeously American holiday? NOT ME, babes. NOT ME.

And neither can you.

But you know what comes hand-in-hand with backyards and pools and barbecues? Booze. Also, hot, scalding, potent sunshine beating against your scantily clad body. And finally, if you head home, a sea of people from your past whom you're no longer connected to but have somehow magically appeared because they're: a., all thirsty bitches who so desperately want to eat your mother's famous hamburgers and swim in your stepdad's pool, or b., moochers who want a piece of your $1,000-per-night house share in Montauk.

Suddenly, everyone wants to reconnect! Suddenly, everyone is like, "I just want to see you! It's been sooo long!" HEART EMOJI. HEART EMOJI. HEART EMOJI.

And because this is such an American holiday and because it's the last week of summer, you, my beautiful girl, are going to be feeling ~the love~.

You won't catch on that all these ghosts from the past aren't excited to see YOU in all your glory. They just want a place to party.

All these ghosts from the past aren't excited to see YOU in all your glory. They just want to party.

Let me tell you a little story about my dear friend Pippa*.

Pippa and I are both from a little bougie beach town in the heart of the tri-state area. But Pippa and I, at the time, both lived in tiny, pod-like bedrooms in NYC.

There is nothing lonelier than Labor Day weekend in Manhattan, so we decided to fly the coop and head to our hometown.

"Let's have a party!" Pippa declared the moment we arrived at her parent's mansion, posing for me in her new white and pink polka-dotted, high-waisted bikini.

"YES! A PARTY!" I enthusiastically shouted back, pushing my size-A boobs up in my jet-black halter bikini.

"Wait, who are we going to invite? We hate everyone from high school, remember?"

"Oh yeah," I remembered, suddenly defeated. The only person we still talked to from high school was our celebrity hair stylist friend (who shared our mutual hatred of everyone we grew up with), and he was off in Los Angeles doing Jessica Alba's hair for a press tour.

Yet three hours, one text message, two Facebook status updates, and four cocktails later, Pippa's parents' pool (they were conveniently out of town) was surrounded by all the holier-than-thou, basic bitches we loathed in high school.

"Hey Zara, didn't I see you at 2 am for a minute in some made-for-TV movie?" Suzy Senior Class President with the frosted highlights asked me, chuckling like she was on a bad episode of "Gossip Girl."

"No, that was my twin." I slugged back the rest of my drink in one gulp. "Has anyone seen PIPPA!?" I shouted to no one in particular.

"She went upstairs..." Leah With The Massive Breasts said coyly. Then, with a wicked smile, added: "She's with Pat."

I ran upstairs to rescue Pippa and aggressively pounded on her bedroom door like a cop busting an underage party.

"LEAVE US ALONE!" Pippa shouted as I heard the bed creak. Did I just hear a moan? Ew. I almost threw up in my mouth and ran back downstairs to drink the trauma away with a hit of a joint, two tequila shots, and four cigarettes.

Finally, Pippa reappeared. She was wasted, her makeup smudged, hair a wreck — and she had this fuckboy Pat hanging all over her.

Everyone at the party was buzzing, gossiping about beautiful Pippa, "the unattainable entity who moved to the big city," going upstairs with the townie Pat who probably still sells weed out of his parent's basement.

I was embarrassed for her, but also deeply empathetic. I had been wasted a few Christmases back and hooked up with my high school arch nemesis. I woke up the next morning with a mouthful of liquor and a head full of regrets.

I knew Pippa was going to be shame spiraling over this tomorrow.

And I was right. Pippa woke up the next morning and shot out of bed like a bat out of hell.

"OH MY GOD!" she screamed.

"It's OK!" I assured her. "No one will remember." I was lying through my teeth, but sometimes a girl just has to tell a white lie to save the integrity of her friend's character.

"No, it's not. It's not OK. Because I totally had sex with someone from high school and it's triggering me."

And that's all she had to say.

No matter how far you've come since those torturous four years, sleeping with someone from high school brings you right back to a time you want so badly to forget.

You go from being a confident career woman living in the city to feeling like a pimply misfit stuck in the 'burbs. All it takes is just one thrust of the pelvis.

THIS is why I don't want you to get drunk this Labor Day weekend and sleep with anyone from high school!

It's not because I don't want you to have sex — I'm all about you having sex. I just don't believe in taking a step backwards in this short life, and sleeping with some rando from your adolescent years is a giant step backwards, kittens.

Keep the past in the past. I don't want your head to be full of bad high school memories for the next several months.

Keep the past in the past.

High school represents a time when we're all a little weak, a little sad, a little co-dependent. And I need you to be strong, gazing ahead as we make our way together into the brutal winter season.

SO, just don't do it. You'll be embarrassed, and you'll suddenly feel majorly insecure and have an irrepressible urge to listen to the bad emo music that you used to blast in your shitty car senior year.

This weekend, if you find yourself drunk, sitting around some pool in your hometown, and some little dickwad from the past slithers up next to you and tries to sex you, just say no.

And if you're tempted, just imagine me sprawled out on a dramatic leopard-print lounge chair to your left. I'm wearing a large black sun hat to protect my porcelain skin, big Fendi sunnies and a really low cut, chic bikini by La Perla.

"Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it," I'm sending you through our special ESP connection.

Message me, if you're tempted, babes, because I'm your digital big sister. And as long as you listen to me, you'll never shame spiral about having sex with some loser who bullied you all those years ago.

Nah, instead we'll ice them out, ignore the shit out of them, and be cold, untouchable queens who only exist in the present.

And that's the ultimate goal: to be PRESENT.