syndyne

Every hot chick at a party is legally required to have one douchebag orbiting her at all times. It's not a choice; it's physics. Like how a planet gets a moon, or a garbage can gets a fly.

The douchebag uniform is universal:

•Affliction or Ed Hardy shirt (tight enough to show he "works out")

•Hair gel measured in gallons, not ounces

•Sunglasses worn indoors, at night

•Some variation of a chain necklace that says his own name, in case he forgets it

•Talks exclusively about his "business" which is either crypto, dropshipping, or "a startup"

His opening line to the hot chick is always one of three things: "You look familiar," "Do you come here often," or just aggressively nodding at her from across the room like a security camera.

Meanwhile, the hot chick is a full-time hostage negotiator. She's smiling, nodding, calculating how long she has to stay before she can sneak to the bathroom and text her group chat "he called his car 'the whip' twice."

The tragic math:

The hotter the chick, the more severe the douchebag. Peak hotness equals peak douche. It's a perfect inverse relationship with the interesting guy sitting in the corner who can actually hold a conversation, who gets ignored, because he's not doing the indoor sunglasses thing. The douchebag always has one redeeming trait he repeats like a mantra: "I'm actually really chill." He is, in fact, not chill. He has been chill-screaming about his fantasy football league for 45 minutes.

The relationship lasts 6 months. The breakup happens because he "just needs to focus on himself right now", which means posting gym mirror selfies for 3 weeks straight. And the hot chick? She's fine. She's always fine. She's onto the next douchebag by Friday, because deep down she knows: you don't get rid of the douchebag. You just rotate him.