Bumping music fills my ears and rattles my rib cage and the caving-in ceiling. Gyrating bodies circle me. Liquids of different colors and alcohol content dribble down my calves and splash on my chestnut brown combat boots. There’s a level of dankness in the air that makes one almost taste the salt in others’ sweat.
I always find myself observing these things at college parties rather than enjoying the actual party. I’d have to say I enjoy 60 percent of it while whatever is happening around me is fascinating me, and I’m genuinely analyzing it. I laugh inwardly when I dance with a guy with zero rhythm. I grimace, hugely annoyed, when a girl screams insanely loud for no apparent reason.
The social grind of college students is quite fascinating. A good chunk of us run on less than 6 hours of sleep, jugging coffee (and those disgusting 40s and odd mixes of vodka and whisky with an array of juices on weekends) and gossiping over rancid, laxative-laced food. It’s a horrible lifestyle, yet we enjoy it because we’re indirectly paying more than an arm and a leg for education that may or may not guarantee us an okay-paying job after we leave the sleepless, partying nest. Despite the ugly bags under my eyes and the way my joints squeak from a night’s poor rest, I get a certain high from this bustling way of life.