Friday. 4:54 p.m. Myra, your typical CWRU student, frantically types up the last few sentences of her lab report and successfully submits it via Blackboard. She checks her iPhone. It is 5:00 p.m. She exhales a sigh of relief and pulls up Twitter, indulging in a celebratory tweet: “Lab report done and ready to party! #workhardplayharder #CWRU” She has had a particularly demanding week and can’t wait to recover from her stress by spending the weekend alternating between being drunk and hungover.

6 p.m. Myra has showered and is now pondering her next course of action. She can’t eat the cold pizza in her refrigerator, because it is her designated drunk food for when she comes home ready to binge. She plans her outfit for that night— stilettos, crop top and a bandage skirt that arguably covers her tuchus.

7 p.m. Myra exchanges numerous texts with her girls, deciding where they should meet up and pre-game before heading to the party. Everyone knows that big kids don’t start raging till after 11 p.m., so Myra and her friends plan to meet up at 10 p.m. in order to drink and take copious amounts of photos that they will later Instagram to show just how much fun they had.

8 p.m. Myra sends another Tweet in order to emphasize her excitement for the night. “Can’t wait to take shots with my girls! Much needed therapy.”

10:30 p.m. Myra and her friends are eager to get their party on, but they feel that it would be unacceptable to show up at a house party before 11 p.m., so instead they talk about how much fun they will have, and insist that each girl is hotter than the rest of them.

10:45 p.m. Myra’s sense of civic responsibility compels her to tweet again: “Disclaimer – I am not to be held responsible for any of my actions tonight.”

11 p.m. The horde of tipsy girls begins its exodus to Hessler Road. Their journey is marked by stumbling, screams, and phrases such as “You deserve to have fun once in a while,” “You look SO hot,” and “Will you be my drinking buddy tonight?”

11:15 p.m. After getting lost a few times and knocking on a couple wrong doors, the girls finally arrive at their destination. As the girls make their noisy entrance, a few guys, who clearly have not showered recently and are wearing faded jeans and dirty t-shirts, glance up. The guys notice all the clothing that the girls are not wearing, and revert to playing beer pong. The girls clump together in a corner and begin sending mass texts to all their friends, demanding, “Where are you? Come to Hessler! It’s so much fun!”

11:30 p.m. Having exchanged a grand total of about two words with the guys at the party, Myra decides that music will remedy the situation. “Can we play some music?” she demands. “I’m ready to dance!” The host complies with her request, but the blaring music is so loud that no one can hear anyone else, and Myra’s attempt to boost conversation proves futile. One girl who particularly resembles Bambi attempts to dance, but the combination of her high heels and the numerous puddles of beer on the floor prove too much for her delicate balance, and she falls. Myra joins the rest of her friends in loudly expressing their concern for Bambi.

12 a.m. A few more people straggle in and seek out the remaining available corners of the house. Eager to gain some attention, Myra moves to the beer-pong table and apologizes too loudly every time she misses a cup. Once, when the ping-pong ball rolls off the table, Myra is faced with a dilemma. Her formerly appropriate skirt will not permit her to bend down and pick up the ball. Hoping to attract the attention of some helpful man, Myra suggestively looks at the guy standing a few feet away. But this would-be knight in shining armor is too busy sipping his natty light to notice Myra’s invitation. Several minutes pass before the ball is returned to the table.

1 a.m. Having already been to the two other houses hosting parties that night, everyone ends up at the house where Myra is now pretending to be super busy responding to urgent texts. Conversation is still minimal, and the heat and stickiness have reached unbearable levels. But there are no corners left to hide in, and aided by their drunkenness, most people engage in some sort of grinding. The hosts of the party are proud of their success.

2:30 a.m. Shoes in hand, Myra returns home. She would have liked to party longer, but the police showed up and ended the night. While inhaling slice after slice of pizza, Myra contemplates what shirt she should wear tomorrow to flaunt the hickeys that are developing on her neck. She sends a final tweet: “And that’s how it’s done. Ready to repeat tomorrow #ilovecollege.”

Theresa Smetona is a senior majoring in Spanish and English. In her free time, she likes to drink coffee and consider the possible benefits of her future unemployment.