right of passage.

there's a shamefully legitimate reason for my recent blog drought.

about a month ago, I picked up the collegiate times and saw a blurb on the front: Position Open for She Said writer. the She Said column comes out every friday, and is a witty, sarcastic opinion piece on some aspect of college life, compared right beside the 'he said' column. it's entertaining. it's bold. it was a position i was born to have.

so i applied, approximately 2 minutes after the paper came from printing. the responding email introduced the subject for the 'write-off' each applicant was to write a competing article on. the subject? throwing a college party.

here is my piece, which if nothing else, i hope was a damn close second.
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She Said- Throwing a College Party

As freshmen entering into college, ‘making it’ through the year includes avoiding accumulating 3 JR’s, not getting caught in a Pritchard fire drill, and evading the freshmen fifteen like the plague. It isn’t until sophomore year, however, that success is defined by the ultimate right of passage: throwing a college party.

Avoiding JR’s becomes eluding the police, fire drills give way to not being skunked into a naked run around your apartment complex, and the terror of a few extra pounds becomes blurred with every flip of a solo cup.

The first college party is a defining moment in any undergraduate drinking-enthusiast’s life; a first experience that becomes not jaded but seasoned with each credit passed. Every detail of your first college party is planned, from each strategic invite to the song to be played at the top of every hour. The pinnacle of the planning period, logically, is the official party Facebook event profile. Days may be spent staring blankly at that notorious blue and white screen, choosing the perfect Event Name and Tagline, while debating between the attraction of a safe ‘house party’ description, or a more entertaining ‘night of mayhem’ or even ‘erotic party’ choice. After hours of deliberation, finally a coordinated picture, a truly ‘unique’ theme decision (always between heaven and hell, 80s, and togas), and detailed report on every type of alcohol that will be served, you invite everyone you know. This is not the party to hold back, after all.

Finally, after spending embarrassing amounts of your parents ‘just-for-essentials’ money (you’ll make it back for sure!) on liquor, natty kegs, solo cups, and Jell-o packets, plus decorations, the evening arrives. Your tiny apartment turns into a fantasy land of slutty angels, sluttier demons, and apathetic college students. As you slip into a hostess-excused drunkenness, even through your dynamic double-vision the night unfolds just as planned, from every game of Kings and random keg stands to shocking beer-pong upsets. However, upon further inspection the following morning, you realize hangover-vision is not quite as forgiving. The brutality of a pounding headache combined with a completely trashed apartment, the reality of being over $300 in debt, plus an expensive noise violation taped to the door brings you back to reality, and you immediately meet the fate of every freshman in attendance the night before, crying as you kneel over the toilet.

The upperclassman, however, has learned a thing or two from years of intensive party researching. With more than 60 credits under his or her belt, time is not wasted on Facebook events, or any planning at all, really. The upperclassman party is simply a perpetual pregame. It begins with, “hey, wanna invite some people over before we go out?” which suddenly becomes a familiar group of 20 or so, with the occasional uncomfortable newcomer. The theme ends up being ‘Will anyone notice I wore this out Tuesday?’ and the drinks of choice are a BYOB buffet of PBR’s, Bud Light, and the occasional pretentious six-pack of Leinenkugel’s. The goal of ‘making it to Sharkey’s by 10’ is rarely achieved, as more often the pregame never ends. The night is filled with more intellectually challenging drinking games, such as Baseball, Cheers Govenah!, and Sardines. Being skunked in beer pong has evolved into voluntary streaking of the drillfield, football field, or other Hokie landmark. And in the morning, you grumble an “I’d move you if you passed out in front of everyone…” to your roommate after waking up on the couch, again, and sigh satisfied that the house looks much like it did the previous morning, plus the fridge is inhabited by a motley crew of leftover beers.