Freshman year is full of firsts. It’s the first time you live independent of your parents, the first time you experience class in the form of a two hundred person lecture, and the first time you get to see all that Greek life has to offer. Despite all the exciting firsts that your freshman year of college brings, it’s not all sunshine. It’s also the first time you live off shitty dining hall food, the first time you repeatedly find yourself locked out of your dorm, the first time you experience multiple emotional breakdowns each week due to impending academic deadlines, and, for some, the first time you wake up on an unfamiliar lawn and drunkenly wander into your very first collegiate class.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
Rush had just concluded. I’m gonna be honest and admit that recruitment was like my own personal brand of torture. Socializing with hundreds of girls with a constant, fake-as-shit smile on my face was excruciating, and the entire thing was made worse by the fact that I wasn’t allowed a sip of alcohol the entire week. On top of that, we were banned from setting foot on fraternity grounds (not that I had any energy at the end of every day, anyway). Despite the fact that I loathed every second of that week and tend to make terrible first impressions due to my chronic bitch face and general lack of kindness, I somehow wound up receiving a bid from my favorite house. Still kinda convinced that was a mistake, but I won’t tell if you won’t.
After Bid Day, I was completely worn out. I had been thrust into the whole thing so suddenly, and the days were so long and tedious that I completely forgot about how excited I was about the concept of frat parties. When my dorm floor mate asked if I wanted to check it out, I didn’t even give it a thought. I wasn’t one to turn down an opportunity to rage my balls off, and I realized that years of pulling “hey misters” at 7/11 and getting drunk in my high school friends’ basements had prepared me for this moment. I threw on a slutty dress to compensate for the modest J-Crew shorts I’d been sporting all week, and a group of us hit the frats for the very first time.
That shit was eye-opening. We were innocent-ish freshmen with no knowledge of how these shindigs were supposed to go down, so it didn’t take long for us to get completely hammered. Within an hour, I was standing on a bar in a decrepit fraternity basement, taking pulls of bottom-shelf liquor and singing along to crappy rave music. The boys were cool, the music was decent, and I was shithoused. Toward the end of the night, one of the girls had a brutal awakening and took it upon herself to remind the rest of us that we all started class the next day. Not realizing how bad our hangovers would be, we dismissed this notion and continued to drink, because freshmen are stupid, stubborn sons of bitches.
Somehow or another, and I say this because I was partially blacked out, I wandered to the quad at the center of campus, and fell asleep on a nice patch of grass. I’m not really sure how it happened. Maybe I got lost, and couldn’t find my dorm. Maybe I just wanted to explore the beautiful campus in a drunken, wanderlust trance. However it happened, I woke up on that same quad hours later, still in my little black dress, a lawnmower inches from my face and an angry yard man yelling at me to move.
So there I am, not realizing how dangerous and stupid it was to fall asleep outside and alone, trying to figure out my next move. I made my way to a bench and sat down, realizing that I was undoubtedly still hammered. The campus was so unfamiliar that it took me a few minutes to realize where I was in relation to where I needed to be. It suddenly dawned on me that my first class started in ten minutes, and just happened to be located in a building a mere thirty feet from where I was sitting. I quickly collected my thoughts and decided that I had two options. The first, and probably smarter of the two, was to take my ratchet ass back to my dorm for a shower and a nap. The second was to say “fuck it” and walk to class with twigs in my hair and my head held high.
The answer was obvious. I didn’t even consider the fact that my face looked like shit and my dress was not appropriate, or the fact that I didn’t have my backpack or any of my supplies. I marched straight into that building, sporting a drunken stumble and smelling like straight vodka. I proudly sat my ass down in the front seat of my lecture and listened to my professor drone on for fifty minutes, while the two hundred people seated behind me gawked at the mess that was my life. And I didn’t regret a single second of it.
Until I sobered up, when I promptly changed my schedule and dropped the class. .
Image via MizzouMag
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Lucky Jo
Lucky Jo is a former and current TSM writer who likes her men how she likes her coffee: way too hot and unforgivably bitter. She graduated from the University of Missouri in 2016, proving that C's do in fact get degrees. She now spends her days working for a social media marketing agency, hiking with her dachshund, and trying to bring back the scrunchie. Hate mail and goat memes can be sent to lucyjmulvihill@gmail.com.
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