While the new freedom, raging hormones, Omega jungle juice, and close living quarters usually turn coed college dormitories to ceaseless freshman freakfests, there’s always an unlucky woman or two who goes above and beyond the call of booty, their first semester sexploits making their name a synonym for hotivity their entire campus career. For us it was “Angel,” a curvy Canadian-Jamaican whose “freshman fifteen” might have been how many different guys she boned before Christmas break.

Because her close homegirl had my nose wide open, I never had much interest in being a notch on the belt keeping Angel’s pocketless jeans up. (Sign #25353 that a young woman may be a little, um, “sexually lenient?” She rocks jeans with no back pockets.)

Still, we’d occasionally spend time studying together because of a class we shared, and one late winter night a Chem 101 cram session slowly and subtly morphed into a fully clothed fluffer match.

We knew my roommate would be getting back to the suite shortly, so Angel suggested that we move to her dorm because her roomie was staying the night with her bf. While walking to her room, we happen to pass by one of my teammates, who gives me one of those exaggerated “what the hell?” smirk/squints of jealous hate that asshole Harlemites are famous for.

He then proceeded to follow us to her room, invites himself in, and sits on her roommate’s bed reading a Cosmo and talking about the Lox while I’m shooting this ninja the sharpest eye daggers I can possibly muster. If looks could kill I would have murdered a mil

After an hour or so, Angel (understandably) grew tired and told us she was going to bed. We leave, and as soon as the door closes, he starts cracking up:

“My bad, B. I had to do it. I couldn’t let you get your rocks off before me. Plus, I did you a favor anyway, son. You aint really wanna beat, I could see it in your eyes.”

So, if you’re keeping score, not only did he intentionally c*ck-block, he admitted to intentionally c*ck-blocking me, and had the audacity to give me a freakin rationale!!!

Although I should have immediately cut him from the homie’s list because of his blatant g-code violation, I ignored the red flag and we stayed cool until our senior year, when I finally got tired of him trying to secretly bag every single woman I had any type of sexual involvement with.

We all know about romantic relationship red flags, but what about our friends?

Along with the blatant c*ck block, here’s four other friend types that should make you run for your life.

The Fly-By-Night Scheme Ninja

From waterboarding to listening to a Kid Cudi freestyle, there’s many different ways to die slow. Still, none of them compare to having to listen to a Pre-Paid Legal sales pitch for five minutes every time you talk to your boy. I think the automatic “straight to voicemail” feature on cell phones was devised for this single purpose.

It’s not necessarily the Pre-Paid Legal itself that grates as much as the fact that these usually are the same gullible-ass cats who get caught up in every Nigerian pyramid, Ponzi scheme, and shady real estate deal known to man. And, to make things worse, they always seem to try and drag you in with their silly ass to go in with them on a business venture that makes less sense than a person accused of pedophilia releasing a book titled “Touched.”

On the plus side, it does make you pretty creative. I‘ve devised at least 15 great responses to the “Hey, how come you never pick up the phone anymore?” question you’ll inevitability get after awkwardly running into them at Target. Also, while in minute three of one of my too gullible friend’s sales pitches, I thought up three unique ways to murder him without anyone finding out.

The Terrible Tipper

I know it’s a recession and all and cats are on budgets, but one consistently bad tipper has the power to make your entire crew pissed at each other, starting arguments over who’s gonna pay extra to make up for Charlie the Assclown’s perfunctory 2% gratuities.

The Stinker

Everyone has had that friend who, for whatever reason, just can’t get their scent game quite right. It might not even be their fault, but if you continue to hang with the cat whose breath smells like New Jersey Drive, after a while people are just gonna assume that both of you stink.

Since its not nice to throw a balloon of bleach at them every time you see them, you should probably just end the friendship immediately. Or, if you’re nice, introduce them to other, aroma deficient ex-friends so they can stink together.

The Shit Popper Who Always Gets Their Ass Kicked

While there are many benefits to having a bruiser in your crew, being cool with someone who always gets their ass kicked is like having a bird poop on your funnel cake. It doesn’t look too bad until you remember you’re about to eat shit.

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