Welcome to college, freshmen!

You may have made it through Welcome Week without any run-ins with the campus police (congrats!), but you still have plenty of opportunities to meet them up close and personal.

There are going to be many times this year and well into your college career that you will find yourself surrounded by alcohol. And, naturally, you are going to want to partake. Just beware–while you are navigating the university party scene, your RA’s, Campus Police, and Public Safety units are gearing up to bust underage revelers.

Here are some tips on how you can avoid getting written up before your first semester is over.

1. Don’t act like ‘The Freshman.’

Just because you suddenly have access to alcohol, it doesn’t mean you need to consume ALL of the alcohol at once. Even if the cops are out and about, they don’t have the manpower to hunt down every single underage boozer. So, they’ll zero in on the kid stumbling around with a trash can on his head before thinking twice about the passive mingler. The same goes with your RA, who really doesn’t want to walk in on you peeing in the corner of elevator. Read More »

Heading back to campus? Psyching yourself up to lug giant suitcases across the quad? Rinsing out that Nalgene in hopes of filling it with a cran / vodka combo? (Protip: just fill it with cran and watch all the drunk people say things everyone will forget except you.)

Whatever your attitude or mode of moving in, most likely the majority of you will be settling into dorms you’ve never lived in before. At first, everything is clean and vacuumed and smelling like Glade. At first, it seems like you’ve picked the absolute best place to sleep, study, and veg out after a giant Econ test. But then.

The weekend happens. And suddenly it hits you like a splatter of what you hope is cake: you’re smack dab in the middle of a party dorm.

Here are a few ways to tell you’re living in the Bermuda Triangle of beer and screaming.

As you’re moving in, you notice that you’re the only one dragging a suitcase into your room. Everyone else is hauling dollies of 12 packs.

Your roommates are really friendly! Or…why are their eyes drooping like that?

The community fridge is stocked with liquor, sour cream, and mixers.

The community cupboards are filled with cheetos, salsa, pork rinds, and Alka Seltzer.

It’s Monday night, you’re reading Proust, and it sounds like the people in the room next to you are throwing…what’s that? Quarters? And then cheering? Read More »

I am an expert in awkward situations. When I first meet people, more often than not, I leave a horrible first impression. I am similarly awkward in my attempts to be a part of the dating scene.

Just last week, a coworker exclaimed, “Kathryn, you have no game. Your entire approach is off!” Yes, this is true. But somehow, I still get some action, which is why she followed her (rather harsh) declaration with the question, “How do you do it?”

Still, no matter how many times I’ve immediately wished I could retract the bizarre statement that just came out of my mouth, I’ve also been with, or had friends who have been with, equally hopeless guys.

Reviewing my own traumatic events, as well as some of my friends’ bizarre sexual encounters, I’ve compiled a list of some of the worst things to say during sex. Because I’m a woman, they are written from a female perspective, but each of these can be just as cringe-worthy coming from a guy.

1. “Ohhhh, Michael… I mean… Dan?”
Make sure you know the name of the person you’re inviting past the pearly gates. Calling someone by another name will at once crush your partner’s ego and make you look sleazy. Once, I was hooking up with a guy and he proceeded to pour out his feelings for another girl… and try to get my advice on how to go about courting her. That really sucked, and he was pissed when I cut our session short. Read More »

Alcohol is one hell of a substance. It tastes sorta gross, costs sorta a lot and makes you do things that you obviously would have decided against sober. More often than not, a night of drinking leaves me with a hangover and a WTF moment that makes me want to crawl under the covers and never come out.

Like that time I let my best friend make his way downtown (if you get what I mean) and my other friends caught us mid sex act.

Yeah, just like that time.

My best friend is a guy who we’re going to call Dean. Once upon a time, actually right when I first started dating my now very ex-boyfriend, Dean accompanied me to a party held by another one of my friends. A casual house affair with lots of liquor because, well, that’s how we do. My new boyfriend at the time decided not to come me with me to the party because he didn’t know anyone that would be there. So Dean came with me because, he’s my best friend…and also because there would be booze.

After way too many shots the party started to die down and the guests stumbled out. I was having difficulty standing, so the party host asked me and Dean to stay over. Dean was slowly fading as well, so we took her up on the offer.

Did I mention that when I’m drunk I get pretty touchy feely? Or that I was pretty pissed off at my boyfriend for not coming? Yeah, still does not excuse what happens next. Read More »

In this episode, the Lohans FINALLY get to Vegas! They didn’t fly there in a private jet though, which I’m gonna admit was a bit of a let down (I expected some major control issues and perhaps Dina’s debut as a pilot), and there was no liquor fueled dramz. While the episode was age appropriately absent of hard booze, it was heavy on the whine.

For some reason, Ali chooses to adopt an even more nasally tone for this 25 minute tribute to ungratefulness. She complains in this obnoxious tantrum pending voice about all of the trials life has delivered to her. Like the fact that she, her awesome brother and (arguably) cool mom have to live in a tricked out penthouse at the Palms while she records her album. I guess it gets pretty taxing when you’re attending all of these exhausting “Welcome to Vegas!” parties (with delicious looking cake) thrown just for you by the f*#king Maloufs.

Ugh, sorry about that. Anyways, Dina introduces Ali (who is wearing a gorgeous but way too mature minidress) to a bunch of important 30 something guys that she wants Ali to “get comfortable with.” Dina baby, they’re mentally undressing your 14 year old — not very comfort inducing, I would say. The men all flirt with Ali while she fidgets, present her the aforementioned cake (note to self, go buy something with chocolate as soon as I’m done writing) and begin an episode long tradition of complimenting Ali and promising her she’s the next big thing. Read More »

At this point, as I’m sitting here on my couch, nearing the end of day 4 without drinking, I am starting to really believe that I may not be an alcoholic. Granted, I am sitting here eyeing the beer that is in my roomie’s hand. My other roomie, who is on this mission with me, is undoubtedly eyeing it, too.

I spend most Sundays, and yes, even EASTER, entirely preoccupied with a predictable hang over. I lay around in my bed with multiple glasses of water. I check Myspace religiously and later feel accomplished when I gather the strength to order in food.

Today, clearly, was different. I woke up and started to get sh*t done! The trouble, however, even amidst my productivity, was the fact that today was Easter. Something about religious holidays, particularly those on which I typically participate in a family gathering of some sort, tend to make me want to drink. You see, I come from an Irish family. I hope that that says enough. Read More »

If there’s one thing in this world I know, it’s this: You gotta know your limit.

I don’t mean like how smart you are or how hard to push yourself when you’re working out or anything trivial like that. I’m talking about knowing how much you can drink.

One day a few months ago, a friend invited me out for a night of dancing and fun. I thought, hey, yes, I like dancing and fun. This will be excellent.

Cut to me four hours later in a blackout state, still dancing but question mark else? I don’t know because I was f*&cking wasted.

All I know is, I threw up in the bathroom of that club. And then I threw up in a diner afterwards. Twice. And then I think I took a cab home and went to sleep, but I know for sure that four hours later, I woke up and puked on and off for five hours, into my toilet, into plastic grocery bags, and all over myself. In fact, I vommed so much I burst a blood vessel, giving myself what I have affectionately termed zombeye. Zombeye, a bright red bloody eye, lasted two entire weeks. Read More »

In a dark, moderately dirtball Irish pub with adorable bartenders straight from Ireland, I am approached by a liquor promoter. He’s pretty good-looking, obviously a flirt because who else takes a job as a promoter, and so begins his attempt as he hands me a keychain:”Who do you get? Who do people always say you look like?”

I reply the truth, no one, because no one even thinks I look like myself after changing the hair. But the promoter has an opinion,

“Okay, so, you definitely don’t have some features she has, which is a good thing, but—”

Is he serious? I am intrigued by the obvious trap he is setting for himself. Why is it that dumb must always accompany pretty?

“—did you watch Blossom? I swear, you’re a post nose-job Blossom…. No, it’s a good thing!”

Was it really? I spent the rest of the evening staring at my nose in the mirror behind the bar and glaring at the promoter, who at the end of the evening thought he had a shot at seeing me at his ‘gig’ next weekend. Read More »