Hello friends.

As I sit here on my bunk, pondering the inevitably shambly events of the night ahead of me, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia. This is because tonight, I will be fropping. For those of you who don’t know, that means frat-hopping; the art of drunkenly stumbling from one fraternity to another, acquiring a higher blood alcohol content as the night goes on.

Last year, I did my fair share of fropping. I did some really weird shit, actually. One time I stole an office chair- No, like a huge, black leather, rolling office chair. I just rolled it out of the fraternity house, up the street, into my residence hall, up the elevator, into my dorm room. I can’t begin to explain the bizarre thoughts running through my head when I woke up. Last time I saw it, it was in the office of the President of the hall. Another time I spoke in an Irish accent and convinced everyone that my name was Lucille. I said I was from Dublin and my family had a potato farm. I don’t know.


But this year, I’ve severely cut down my fraternity intake, opting for the bars or house parties. I still go, but usually after other said debaucheries. I find it easier to stomach when I’m too drunk to actually comprehend what’s going on. Don’t get me wrong, frat parties rock. But one can’t help notice a few negative aspects of these ragers. Allow me to point out a few.

First off, and probably the most obvious, WHO LIKES CONGRESS? Nobody. I love frat guys for spending their hard asked-for money on alcohol for bitches like us, but I just cannot continue to stomach polls of Dierberg’s brand vodka followed by larger-than-liter bottles with the title “ORANGE” on them. Like, that’s not vodka, and that’s not soda. I’ll pretty much drink anything, but sometimes I feel like I’m just chugging nail polish remover. It’s gotten to the point where when I find a room with slightly less shitty alcohol like Burnett’s, I consider it a gift from God. No, like seriously I man that room like it’s my fucking job. And when it gets to me I take more than my fair share. I’m not evenĀ  sorry that I’m not sorry.


Second, I am a terrible dancer. Sure, If I get a few drinks I think I can throw down like Beyonce, but what I actually look like is the girl with braces who dances in the back of the convertible in Rebecca Black’s “Friday” Music video. I usually just think moving my butt will do the trick, but then I forget that I have arms and hands. There’s just a whole lot of flailing and it’s not pretty. You’d think I was having a seizure if I weren’t standing upright(ish) and somewhat coherently asking for more alcohol. But at least I KNOW that I dance with the sex appeal of a cereal box. There are always those twig bitches that are dancing in a circle, thinking they’re the fucking pussy cat dolls. Like no, you have never looked more white. You’re tacky and I hate you. This is me last year, grinding on a pole trying to be sexy:

Image Maybe my dancing would be better if they didn’t have a loop of songs by the same shitty artists. How much Mac Miller and Sammy Adams can a person stand? I get it, though. Might as well listen to white boys who think they’re hard while surrounded by other white boys who think they’re hard. It’s either shitty white boy rap or techno that could give people epilepsy. I just really hate it when the speakers blast noises that resemble a robot farting.

Sidenote- there’s always that one drunk guy who asks if I’m a natural redhead. Would you ask a blonde that? Yes, I was born a ginger and thus I have no soul, rendering me completely unsympathetic when I murder you and your family. Here’s an incredibly attractive childhood picture to prove it. Try not to be seduced.

Then you have to pee. So you grab a friend (don’t go alone, you will die) and run out of the blacklit room you’re in. It then takes about forty five minute for your eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lights of the frat hallways. You wander around looking for the bathroom, meanwhile looking about ten times worse than you did walking into the house. I don’t even know how it happens. When are they going to invent drunk-proof makeup? Like ok, I can swim for three hours and my makeup will look fine but two shots and a minute of dancing later I look like Janice from mean girls. So you find the bathroom. THERES LIQUID EVERYWHERE. You don’t even know WHAT it is, but you’re smart/drunk enough not to ask questions. Also, there’s also ALWAYS a drunk guy peeing in there, and he doesn’t care what you see. So you take a few pics. Just to be safe.

You then repeat all of these steps until you either: A) Say “Hey, I’m pretty drunk, better go home!” (This never happens. Just thought I’d throw it in for shits and gigs). B) Your friend realizes you are too drunk to function and drags you home. C) You start hooking up with a weirdo and that voice in the back of your head screaming “herpes…” gets louder and louder until you are forced to deal with it. Or D) You want pizza. I should note that E (You don’t go home, you shack) Is also a valid option. More about shacking later.

ImageThis is one of my many glamorous morning-afters. the “D” stands for drunk (still).

Obviously other things happen. Like sometimes you hook up with that kid you went to grade school with, rendering your relationship awkward for all of eternity. Or sometimes you try and steal a composite (Those things are fucking heavy, I don’t recommend this. It’s also really awkward when you inevitable get caught). Or sometimes you do something cool and potentially life threatening like climb on the roof or drink moonshine. What’s cool about frat parties is that no one gives a fuck. It’s like you take a couple hours out from reality to do weird shit with weirder people. And it’s like Arby’s, you always meet the coolest kids. Like that guy who spoke fluent Chinese (granted, he might’ve been making it up, but A for effort). Or that one kid I met who had the tattoo of Mario on his ass.

Point is, I may hate on frat parties, but they’re still the most fun I’ve ever had. In a few years I’ll probably be that weird senior that still goes, and I will have zero embarrassment about it. Where else can I demonstrate that I know every word to “Afroman” by Colt 45? Where else can I chug numerous natties and not want to die of shame? So keep doin’ you, frats; keep throwin down. If you throw it, sluts will come. They’ll come to Greektown for reasons they can’t even fathom. They’ll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they’re doing it. They’ll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won’t mind if you look around, you’ll say. Oh… sluts will come, Frats. Sluts will most definitely come.