by Maddie Parise
There are certain assertions about life at most colleges that many can agree on. The cafeteria food sucks, your RA will be too peppy, your bike will get stolen and people will party. Though many find partying to be a complete waste of time, energy and crop tops, let me tell you why it’s awesome.
But before I tell you that let me note that the Criterion does not condone underage drinking, nor will this article be in reference to illegal activities that may occur at some parties.
Okay, cool, let’s go.
The first thing that’s great about parties is the time you spend getting ready for them. Who doesn’t want to spend a Saturday night cursing out their eyeliner and asking their roommates 17 times “Does my butt look okay in this?” Sweaty male-dominated living rooms covered in ash and vomit are the GJ equivalent of a fashion runway; work it girl.
Once you’re all dolled up, the real excitement begins. The transportation to a party may seem like a headache to some, but I can’t think of a more delightful evening. A night out often consists of finding a sober driver, spending 45 minutes waiting for Mavrides, miscommunication on three to five addresses, walking in the rain with heels on (feat. freshmen) and finally making it to the outskirts of the Redlands only to find that a party has been shut down. This, my friends, is true entertainment.
Let’s say you finally make it to a decent party, then what? Then you have the best 45 minutes of your life.
First, you kill it in water pong. Okay, that’s not entirely true; you perform adequately at water pong. Alright, that’s a stretch too, let’s just leave it at ‘you didn’t troll in water pong.’
Then you squeeze your way through the trenches of moist butt-grabbers only to be spit out on the other side of the kitchen next to three girls. Hold onto your hats people, these three girls are about to become your best friends until tomorrow morning.
The exchange of numbers and promises of “We’ll totally hang out again!” will give you a rush of social validation you haven’t felt since you met your bestie Megan the night before. Wait, or was it Morgan? No worries, check the emoji infected contact name later.
When the clock strikes 1 a.m., things get even better. Your song comes on. That’s right, “Closer” by the Chainsmokers blasts over the subpar music system, igniting a flame within you and every other person who has heard the song a hundred times but still thinks it’s good. Your inner Twerk Jerk comes out and you get jiggy with it, maybe too jiggy with it.
Suddenly, lights flicker, the music stops, the homeowner bids you a pleasant goodbye, “Everybody get the f*** out! Cops are coming and I’m not about to get a ticket ‘cuz of your dumb asses.” Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow.
The journey home is perhaps the best part of an evening out. Your bare stomach shivers in the bitter wind and you and your fellow party-goers cling onto ponytails whilst puking to a repetitive loop of “I had so much fun. Oh my god, I love you guys.”
This is the portion of the night where legal chastizations, mysterious bruises and sexual offers are acquired; though hopefully not in that order. What makes it all worth it, however, is waking up the next morning with your arm stuck in a wet trash can with a pounding headache and a list of regrets longer than the breakfast line in the cafeteria.
Partying, man, what’s not to love?
