Ah, the start of another school semester, my last here at NIU.  What I’m going to leave this place with is a legacy of liver disease, enough credit card debt to make Paris Hilton’s slutty jaw drop, and a pretty thorough understanding of what makes college students tick.  I’ve made some amazing friends while meandering my way through the drunken corn-maze that is DeKalb, Illinois.  I intend to honor our bonds with a semester-long-Leaving-Las-Vegas-style booze binge which will leave me with memories to last a lifetime (if it doesn’t result in my vomit-related death).

One semester left.  That’s one hundred and two days for those of you that are counting and 2,448 hours for you nerds out there fingering your TI-83’s.  A mere 146,880 minutes left in this wonderfully unique environment where 4 am is considered early on weekends which last from 4:45 Pm on Wednesdays to approximately 6 pm on Sundays and you sober up to the grim reality of somehow being expected to function without Miller High Life.  But at this point, you’re no nubie.  You’re smart enough to schedule your classes around Rock of Love re-runs and your sloth-like sleeping habits.  By this time, you’ve opted to live with other pseudo-alcoholic-vampires who, like you , find it socially acceptable to skip a class located two blocks away, but willingly stumble over to a party two miles away in a blizzard wearing your favorite toe-mangling heels.

My time in college is always a time I’ll treasure.  As much as I want to punch people who say “College is the best years of your life” directly in the throat I have to admit that those cliche-ridden bastards are probably right.  If you’re like me and have spent a significant amount of time at your parents’ house over break, you’ve gained an appreciation for the freedom college has allotted us.  There’s just no way the type of behavior that we college kids routinely engage in away from our parents’ prying eyes would fly in the real world, a sad place where huge bong rips and foxy-boxing are looked down upon rather than celebrated in all their glory .   I mean, you should hear the slew of criticisms that I endure as I stumble up the stairs in my parents’ house at 4 am dressed like a cheap hooker while yelling out obscenities at the cat.

College is the only place where silly drunken behavior is truly appreciated so enjoy it while you can my fellow boozehounds.  Hopefully, the memories we create here can at least provide us with some entertaining stories we can tell each other while we pretend that we’re content with our mundane, middle-aged march towards inevitable death.

We college kids undoubtedly have a subculture unto ourselves. Some people play basketball, we play beer pong. Some people wait all year for Christmas or Thanksgiving, we wait all year for St. Patty’s Day, New Years Eve, and Superbowl Sunday. Some drink orange juice for breakfast, we throw back a Busch Light because we hear its a good cure for that hangover. We can turn anything into a drinking game.

We live in our own world, a world where jungle juice seems like a good idea, being awake at 4 a.m. is normal, “wanna do a body shot” is a sufficient pick-up line, and 21st birthdays are an entity unto themselves. We have become aware that alchohol makes us say, do, and wear things that would, in a sober state, be out of the question. Watching our friend make out with a stranger in front of cheering spectators is raw comedy, kegerators become the greatest invention the world has ever seen, and we “discover” things that seem utterly amazing…like malt liquor…and Beerios…

We nickname beers. If we’re at the bar and we ask for a “Beast” or a “Natty,” the bartender knows what we’re talking about because he’s probably in college too. We have drunken alter-egos and we name them. A few sots down the hatch and we suddenly turn into “Rico Suave” the tequila-chugging wonder…We are experts at Kings, never running out of tricky categories or a clever rule. We draw on the faces of passed out friends, we know that empty fifths make great decorations in our apartments (also note: empty kegs can be sweet coffee tables), and we have done a “shotski”.

We make friends while we are drunk and we assign them an adjective that will forever precede their name in order to distinguish them from the rest of the “friends” we make while drunk (also because we do not know their last names.) “Sloppy Tom,” “Chicago Sarah,” and “Creepy Steve” will always be near and dear to our hearts.

We have no money because we spent it all on beer. This, unfortunately, is also why we drink Povov and Crazy Horse, and trust us, that takes heart. It grows on us after awhile…or after we’ve taken too many shots to remember that what we’re drinking tastes like gasoline. The lack of money situation is also why if we see someone sipping a Corona, they are a baller, and we will make friends with them.

After a long night of bonging beers at a house party, bravely resisting the urge to drunk dial (and/or drunk IM) all of our ex-boyfriends, then going shot-for-shot with a frat boy at the bar, we wake up hugging an empty box of wine in our underwear on our best friend’s kitchen floor with a million questions running through our pounding heads. We wake up with random incoherent numbers in our cell phones (”Who the hell is ‘grEenshirtb4oy’?”), random pictures on our cameras (”Look, here’s one of so-and-so humping that Corona guy on the dance floor…”), a mere 73 cents left in our wallets (”I didn’t know Hold ‘em was a drinking game?”), and a desperate desire to lay in bed for the rest of our lives…it is then that we swear off drinking forever…for real….we really mean it this time….

Yet, after shotgunning a brewski or two and kickin back with a 40, we head to the shower, beer in hand, and get ready to begin our evening once again. It takes balls, simply put. We know how to party. We have honed and perfected our art. We are lushes, bar stars, and boozehounds.

Why do we act this way you ask? Because we can. Because in 4 short, blurry years we will have to enter the “real world”. So for the time being we will live it up…As long as there are beers to be drank and shots to be taken, we will be there…as long as there are case races to be won and frat houses to pass out in, we will be there…as long as there are tables to be danced on and annoying eighties songs to sing loudly along to, WE WILL BE THERE!…but we’re not gonna lie, we probably won’t remember it.

We here at the Fifth Year pride ourselves on our vast array of knowledge and
hard-earned wisdom when it comes to the college experience.  Whether it be
quick hangover cures, relationship advice, or emergency scholastic remedies,
we’ve been there, we’ve done it and we know what it’s like (to stand in line
at Walgreens waiting for the anti-inflammaotry cream you’ve been prescribed
as a result of a particularly raunchy weekend fuckfest, that is).

So what’s the most important nugget of wisdom (heh, heh…nugget) we can
offer you?  That’s simple: Education, in itself is an admirable thing.  It’s
why we’re all here, after all.  But it’s probably a good idea to remember
that nothing worth knowing can be taught.  The memories you take away from
this place will most likely have nothing to do with the time you spend
secretly picking your nose in a quiet corner in Cole Hall three times each
week.  What you will remember and laugh about years from now is the night
you and your buddies streaked across the grassy knoll between Grant and
Stevenson on a particularly chilly night in February, or the time you and
the kid down the hall had to go in hiding for three days because the fat
chick down the all ratted you out for throwing stolen pumpkins from the 6th
floor lounge window.

The bottom line is that the quality of the time you spend here is
determined by the people you choose to surround yourself with.  And, since
the freshman experience involves being thrust into a confined space (i.e. a
dorm) with a crazy variety of people from all sorts of backgrounds and
places, we’ve taken the liberty of sorting them into various categories,
giving you, our loyal readers, some insight into what you’re in for.  That’s
right, we’ve shamelessly pigeon-holed every single god damn person we’ve
ever come across so that you can be informed before befriending the
closet-dendrapheliac that says hello to you in the elevator ride up to your
room.  Enjoy, kids and just remember that when it comes to friendship, the
best time to make friends is before you need them (to give you THC-free
urine to pass a random drug test that is).

The Drug Dealer: He’s got awesome pot, even awesome-er shrooms, and a
pretty severe coke addiction, meaning that he probably won’t make it through
a full year of school, so hang out while you can.  The downside of calling
the floor dealer your friend?  Be prepared to have large amounts of cash on
hand to bail him out of jail at 3 in the morning.  Then there’s always a
chance you may get busted, especially since you’ve allowed him to store a
huge bong in your closet, and a good amount of heroin in your mattress.
Plus it’s pretty hard to adhere to a rigorous class schedule when you’re
always itching.

The Straight-Edge Kid that Goes Nuts When He gets to College (Also known as
the Virgin that becomes a Slut when She gets to College): These are usually
kids that have led pretty sheltered and/or strict lives up until now.  Or,
they come from towns that have a population that’s half the size of your
graduating class.  To them, college equals freedom, and freedom means
getting as fucked up and doing the craziest shit imaginable because there’s
no one to answer to.  The upside?  They’re always up for trying new shit,
whether it be deemed socially unacceptable or a federal offense.  The
downside: trying to convince them that the laws of physics apply to them as
they’re doing 80 down Annie Glidden Road after finishing off a bottle of
Jack and enough coke to kill a small horse.  Also, being an accomplice to
such risky behavior will surely result in some sort of fine, a particularly
uncomfortable venereal disease, or even death.  And c’mon, do you want to be
chums with someone who can usually be found wandering around the floor naked
and screaming obscenities every weekend?  (The answer to this question
better be “fuck yes!”)

The Rich Kid: Living proof that nice clothes, a nice car, and daddy’s
credit card usually equals asshole.  Work?  Work is for people whose parents
don’t like the idea of constantly wiping their children’s asses.  If you
enjoy playing the latest and most expensive video games or ordering food
without having to pay for it, consider making the rich kid your new best
friend.  However, be aware of the fact that someone who has no concept of
being broke won’t tolerate your attempts to conserve money.

The Floor Slut: Her hobbies include letting frat boys give it to her from
behind, stumbling down the Walk of Shame, giggling, making out with other
girls, doing lines off guy’s dicks, and crying hysterically about
overhearing someone call her a skank.
Will it be gentleman #1, #2, or #3 tonight?  Hell, why put yourself through
the agony of having to pick?  You won’t remember in the morning.  So, take
your liberties gentleman…as far as my experience in this realm is concerned,
she got this bombed for a reason, and you’re it.  But be aware of the rising
costs of abortions, since you may be required to pay for one as a direct
result of the floor slut’s late-night company.

The Floor Stoner/Hippie: Easy to spot (and smell).  Usually found standing
in front of the elevator smiling for no apparent reason, having forgotten to
push the button that makes the elevator come.  “Dude the elevator’s busted.”
No, dude.  You’re just blazed.
A stoner’s wardrobe is compromised of khaki cargo shorts (many pockets, lots
of stuff to hold-wink, wink), hoodie, hemp necklace, dread locks, and ankle
bracelets regardless of gender.  This person will celebrate 420 like it’s
Christmas.  Their dorm room will surely have Fabreeze, incense, Bob Marley
CDs, masking tape, blow tubes, and a fan facing the window.  Being the
open-minded and generous individuals that they are, stoners will get you
high for the first time because they get some sort of weird pleasure from it
that’s similar to the little ego boost a guy gets from popping a virgin’s
cherry.  Be aware that hanging with the floor stoner will result in the
memorization of  every single episode of Family Guy, a lowered GPA due to
Anti-Motivational Syndrome (a.k.a. laziness), and of course, weight gain.

The Frat Guy/ Sorority Girl: They value friendship so highly that they’re
even willing to pay for it.  Because they have taken ingesting alcohol and
made t into an art form, frat and sorority members usually have access to
the best parties and largest pools of attractive, horny singles.  However,
be advised that if you aren’t planning on devoting every iota of your free
time to the Greek system, befriending someone who is probably a bad idea
since all floor bonds will pretty much be forgotten once Hell Week starts.

The Anal Computer Nerd: He’s already got tickets to the next Star Wars
movie, and the timer on his AOL Buddy List reads something like “48 days, 6
hour, and 22 minutes”.  He’s planning on staying in the dorms during winter
break because the internet connection at his parents’ house “sucks”.  He
never parties, but you can count on him to bitch when you do.  My advice, be
nice to him and he’ll be there for you when your computer crashes.  Be too
nice to him, however, and you may run the risk of calling him your new
Facebook stalker.

The Fat Chick: She has a crush on every guy on the floor, but her love of
her male floor mates is only surpassed by her love of consuming entire
packages of Oreos at three in the morning.  You can be sure she’s got the
Platinum Meal plan so hit her up late in the month for free access to the
Stevenson food court.  Fat chicks usually have hot friends, since according
to the female mentality, hanging out with those that are less attractive
than you only makes you appear hotter.  The fat chick can be cool, but she
can also be a drama-causing bitch.  Just remember that offering her baked
goods will surely lead to forgiveness.