Zoom

Story Notes:  This story didn't flow right without naming one of the people involved.  So I made up a name.

The night is young. The alcohol is flowing freely. The music is blasting. The beer pong table is occupied, and has been claimed for the next five games. People are standing around drinking and maybe dancing when someone suggests playing a drinking game.

“Kings?”

“No, I don’t know where my cards are.”

“Landmines?”

“There aren't any cans.”

"Flip cup?"

"We don't have a free table."

“Fuck the Dealer?”

“That needs cards, too.”

“Dr. Killabrew?”

“I’m kinda full.”

"Quarters?"

"Where?"

“Let’s play Zoom!”

“Yeah, we haven’t played that in a while.”

“I’ve never played, how does it work?”

"Nate?"

“Alright,” Nate makes sure everyone is paying attention, then jumps into his explanation of the rules. “The name of the game is ‘Zoom, Schwartz, Pafigliano, and Beederman’. Playing this game is like passing an invisible ball around the circle. There are four things you can say when you have the ball: Zoom, Schwartz, Pafigliano, and Beederman. Zoom passes it to the person you’re looking at. Schwartz returns it to the person who sent it to you. Pafigliano passes it right and Beederman passes it left.

There are three rules. Rule number one: you can’t Zoom a zoomer, but you can Schwartz a schwartzer. If you Zoom a zoomer, you have to drink. Rule number two: you can’t say the name of the game. So if I say ‘Zoom’, he says Schwartz, and I say Pafigliano, you can’t say Beederman or you have to drink. Rule number three is the rule of threes. You cannot say anything three times, either as a group or individually, or you have to drink.

When someone messes up, the person to their left restarts the game. Is there anything left in the keg?”

“I think so,” someone replies.

“Okay. If you mess up four times in a row, you do a keg stand. Are we ready to start?”

“Uh…” The three people who have never played before look nervous.

“Don’t worry. You’ll pick it up. It really isn’t as hard as it sounds.”

“What about nicknames?” Someone who has played before asks.

"Or noonans?" Another chimes in.

“Let’s let them play a few rounds to get used to it,” a slightly more compassionate person suggests.

We split the newbies up. The game is more fun when the people who have never played before are sandwiched between experts. It makes it easier to gang up on them.

“Does everyone have a drink?” Nate asks. Everyone holds up a red cup; each is filled with something alcoholic. “Alright, let’s start. The name of the game is Zoom, Schwartz, Pafigliano, and Beederman. Zoom.” And we’re off.

You Need Help

I'm sitting on my desk, feet on the chair, hunched forward to avoid my bunked bed. My roommate is cross-legged in the papasan chair. She's hunched a little, like she doesn't really want to have this conversation. But she did agree with me that it's necessary. She is here. It just means that I'll have to take point.

I wipe my palms on my jeans and take a deep breath. Our suite-mate is standing in the middle of the room. Her arms are crossed. She's already on the defensive. She knows what this is about.

"Um, do you want to sit?" She raises an eyebrow, not impressed with my attempt to put off the conversation now that I've dragged her in here. My roommate remains silent.

I take a deep breath. "Look, we're just worried about you." That gets a snort. "I heard you in the bathroom this morning. And it wasn't the first time. We care about you. We want you to get help."

She glares at me. My roommate chimes in that she heard the puking, too, and the glare is turned on her.

"This is rich. So you've just decided to single me out?"

"What? That's not it at all!" I protest, standing to meet her. "We're just worried. And we're here for you if you need to talk. But we were hoping you might agree to talk to a counselor or something."

The intervention really did seem like a good idea when we came up with it. And we thought it would go over better with just the three of us. Things have been falling apart all semester. I was sure this would help us heal, become closer. I thought it was a good thing I was doing.

My friend does not agree, and before I know it, I'm the one on the defensive. She's says we have no idea what we're talking about, it isn't anywhere near as bad as we seem to think it is, it isn't any of our business anyway. I protest and equivocate and try to bring the discussion back around to the point which is that she needs help.

Which is when she plays her trump card.

"I need help? Well I'm not the only one. You're such a goddamned hypocrite, cutting yourself and telling me I'm the one who needs help."

That silences me. It would silence my roommate if she'd been anything but an observer.

"You think I didn't know? I'm not as stupid as you think I am. Stop using me to make you feel better about yourself."

There's nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't escalate the argument even further. I spin around, grab my keys and phone from the desk and leave the room, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me.

My rage is white hot. She reversed our positions so effectively, that I'm suddenly running through all the things she was screaming at me only minutes before, mentally screaming them back at her. She has no idea; none at all.

Except maybe she does. Maybe I am a hypocrite, demanding that she seek help when I refuse to seek any for myself. Confronting her didn't help, but could leading by example?

I've hardly made the decision when I find myself outside the office of the school's counselor. I use the momentum of my rage to knock on the door, make an appointment. Then I call my mom and confess everything. It's an insurance policy of sorts; she'll make sure I keep the appointment.

By the time I hang up the phone, I've managed to wander into a corner of the campus I hadn't found before, with benches and a fountain and orange trees. I stay for a while longer. The bubbling water helps calm me down. In fact, I'm calmer than I've been in months. The intervention backfired, but maybe it wasn't a total loss.

x(t) = A cos(wt+b)

A group of us has gathered in my room. This assignment is due tomorrow, and we're fast approaching the point where we start counting down to that due date in hours. But this class is demanding a significant change in how we perceive the world, and so far none of us has been able to make that leap on our own. So here we are, with our notes and books, hoping that together we'll be able to make some sense of this before it comes time to turn in our homework.

"So we just apply this equation, right?" one person asks.

"That's what is says. So we need to know the potential and kinetic energies."

"Well, that should be easy. But I tried that, and the math got ugly and I got scared so I stopped."

"It should be easy. This is the first assignment of the semester. It just can't be that complicated."

As the three of us argue back and forth, a fourth person has been quietly intent on his paper. He finally holds up the drawing he's made. "I think this is the problem. We should be using cylindrical coordinates, not spherical."

"Are you sure? Everything's in spherical."

"Yeah, but look here. See how the forces are directed? I think it's got to be cylindrical."

"Well, it's worth a shot."

We turn our heads back to our papers, sketching and working out the math for a few silent minutes. Then we're quiet for a few minutes more.

"Gosh that's beautiful."

"It can't be that simple, though, right?"

"Weren't you just complaining that it couldn't be that complicated?"

"But it can't be this simple."

"I think that's the point. It is supposed to be this simple and elegant."

"Well, let's hope the rest of them come this easily."

It's a few hours more before we've completed the set to everyone's satisfaction, arguing theory and algebra as we go. But we're ultimately finished sooner than anyone expected to be. There's time to get a good night's sleep, even. We split up, optimistic that this class won't be as hard as we've been led to believe.

It's only the first assignment, though. A week later we're back in the same place, as confused as ever, wondering once again how to convert the presented problem into a simple harmonic oscillator, the only system that makes complete mathematical sense.

Writer's Block

This was bound to happen sooner or later. Actually it has happened before. But never quite to this extent. I haven't written anything for two weeks now. So I'm getting a bit meta in an effort to break through the block and bring my blocks back up to speed.

It's not that I've been lacking things to write about. There are three more alphabet stories to finish (actually, one is finished, but it's the last one, so I can't post it until the other two are written). I have four book reviews waiting to be written, and I'm fast approaching a fifth. And I don't entirely know how far behind I am on the personal blog. January was an unusually busy month.

You'd think with all those topics to choose from, I'd be able to slip back in easily. But the truth is that as my backlog builds up, I'm finding it harder and harder to get started. There's just so much to do. And so I'm falling back into bad procrastinator habits. Ignore the problem and it will go away.

The truth is that it could. These blogs are mostly for me. I maintain them because I want to. But I really do want to. I like writing about books. It helps me retain what I've read, which is especially important now that I'm reading so much. I enjoy looking back on the older posts on my personal blog. It's a great way for me to remember all the fun things I've done for the past few years.

Five years.

It's just a month short of five years since I started the first blog. Well, it wasn't my first blog. I think it was closer to my fifth blog. But it's the first one I've stuck with for more than a couple of months. And I enjoy it. I really do. Writing it, re-reading it, keeping a record of my boring little life. It's been great.

I've started to worry, in the past couple of weeks, that I took on too much. Expanding to three blogs was a big move, and with the writer's block I was starting to think that maybe I couldn't keep up with it. The truth is, though, that I'm not writing three times as much. I'm writing maybe 50% more. And that's a reasonable goal. Especially if I want to eventually get paid for writing in some form or other. Learning discipline is an important first step. Writing even when I don't want to or when I'm struggling to find the words.

So I'm going to keep writing. Once the alphabet project is done, this blog may not get updated as frequently. But I'm hoping to find something to stick here. I'll let you know when I figure out what that is. In the meantime, enjoy the final three college stories. Now I must go write them.

What Happens in Vegas

Looking back on it, I'm surprised I only visited Las Vegas twice during my time as a college student. It was only three hours from campus, an easy weekend trip. And it was easy enough to pull together a group who wanted to go. The simple truth is that there wasn't much reason to leave campus. We were allowed to drink there, so no one had fake IDs. And there's no reason to go to Las Vegas if you can't drink.

So it wasn't until Spring Break of my senior year that I finally made the trek to Las Vegas. The year, the pope had moved St Patrick's Day back, to keep it from interfering with Holy Week. Not that that stopped us from celebrating on the actual day. But it did give us a very good excuse for celebrating the entire weekend leading up to St Patrick's Day. Us and the rest of Vegas.

We piled as many people as we could gather into a few cars and stuffed ourselves into hotel rooms, using every scrap of floor to keep the hotel costs down. We got drinks at Fat Tuesday's, the cheapest way to get drunk and stay drunk all day long. We bedecked ourselves in green and spent our time wandering around the strip, taking in the sights and general chaos.

The truth is that this trip stands in my memory as a blurry series of vignettes, with no real time order. We all managed to maintain a nice buzz for the entirety of our trip. It was fun, but it doesn't make for coherent memories.

I know that my dad gave me some of my step-mother's money, for reasons I still don't understand, and I used it to win a fair amount of money at the roulette wheel, betting on my birthday.

I know that we weren't the only group of students from our college who had decided to spend St Patrick's Weekend in Las Vegas. We encountered the other groups from time to time, our numbers swelling and dwindling throughout the days and nights.

I know that we spent some time by the pool, but that's not where I got sunburned. I got sunburned during an ill-advised walk from the main strip to the northern end of the strip, when I and a few others needed a break from the ceaseless party.

I know that we tried to get our friends, who had been dating a month, drunk enough to get married and forget about it, while they tried to do the same to me and Kevin. No one got married that weekend, but we all did later.

I know that we played and won beer pong at the Irish bar, and the frat boys from other colleges were very upset to be beaten by girls.

Beyond that, I have only a a sense of contentment. Drunk and surrounded by friends, on the verge of graduation but with the real world still far enough away to be ignored. We explored the city and celebrated everything.

Voodoo

Notes: This story describes a hazing tradition that my class was among the last to participate in.  The administration killed it during my junior year of college.

The first hint that something is wrong is the time of the meeting.  Dorm meetings usually begin at 10:30, but we are told to be in the courtyard at 9 PM sharp.

The upperclasswomen spend the majority of the day drawing on the concrete courtyard with sidewalk chalk.  They refuse to answer any of our questions about what they are doing and why.  Eventually we stop asking and content ourselves with watching.

A large star takes up most of the courtyard.  Each point contains a name, three of which I recognize.  They belong to a sophomore, a junior, and a senior currently living in the dorm.  The fourth is a student who graduated the previous year.  No one seems to know anything about the fifth person, Suggs.  The space between the points of the star is filled with drawings: a rose, a keg of beer, meat, sports equipment, and a little black dog.  These are the symbols of our dorm, though I've never really been able to figure out the dog.  The pentagon in the center of the star is filled with a psychedelic swirl of color.

By the time we congregate in the courtyard, apprehensive and already tipsy, clutching cups of Ice House, the drawing has been completed.  The rest of the dorm members are already there, standing around the star.  This is strange, too.  Usually the upperclassmen remain in their rooms while the frosh announce the meeting, shouting ever louder until the entire campus must know that all of us will soon be drunk and rowdy.

We are directed to stand around the chalk drawing.  It goes without saying that we should not stand on it.  We group together, sipping beer, waiting, wondering what will come next.  A sophomore walks to the center of the circle, stands in the middle of the star.  This is the sophomore whose name is written in one point of the star.  He begins to tell a tale.

Years ago, there was a student named Suggs who lived in this dorm.  Now Suggs, he liked to party.  And on his birthday, he wanted nothing more than to drink and have a good time with his friends.  Unfortunately for him, his friends had all chosen to major in engineering and had too much homework to accomplish that night.  They turned down his invitations to drink and let loose, promising to make it up to him that weekend.

Dejected, and with no one willing to share a drink or a game of beer pong, Suggs retreated to his room.  Once there, he drank himself into a stupor and passed out.  Meanwhile, his friends slowly began to come around.  They realized that it was their good friend's birthday and that a celebration was called for.  They would have a much better time partying with him than struggling with a problem set that, if they were to be honest, they would probably never finish.  Minds made up, they grabbed a bottle of alcohol and trooped up to Suggs' room.

Of course, Suggs was already unconscious.  Try as they might, they couldn't wake him.  But by now they were committed to celebrating his birthday, whether he participated or not.  So the group found a large, wooden rack, tied Suggs to it, and proceeded to carry him from dorm to dorm, laughing and drinking and inviting the other students to shower Suggs with birthday presents.

When Suggs awoke the next morning, he was still strapped to the rack which had been left in a field on the eastern edge of campus.  Hungover and dirty, he eventually managed to free himself.  Back at the dorm he found his friends who were still laughing at their prank.  But Suggs didn't find it funny.  In retaliation, he placed a voodoo hex on them, and on all the residents of the dorm, all the people who ever would live in the dorm.  The only way to counter this hex, the sophomore concludes, is to sacrifice one freshman every year to relive Suggs' humiliation.  The names in the star belong to previous frosh chosen for this honor.

The story teller points to the frosh who has been chosen as this year's Sacrifice.  Hands immediately grab him and lift him up.  He is carried over to a rack of wood propped against the benches.  He is tied down.  Goggles are placed over his eyes.  The upperclassmen produce cans of whipped cream, bottles of chocolate and strawberry syrup, sprinkles and cherries.  We watch while the Sacrifice is transformed into a "birthday cake", though a sundae seems to be a more accurate description.  Should we try to free him?  Are we expected to join in?  With no direction, we simply hang back and drink our beers.

Finally, the upperclassmen exhaust their supply.  The other male frosh are directed to pick up the rack.  Quickly, they chug the remainder of their beers and step forward to lift the Sacrifice.  There are enough of them that this is an easy task.  They will have to carry the rack and the Sacrifice around to the other dorms.  Presents must be collected from each dorm if we are to escape from the hex for another year.

The females are excluded, warned to stay back.  "Be glad you're a girl," the seniors tell us as we follow the group of frosh guys, carrying the Sacrifice on their shoulders, to the dorm across the courtyard.

The residents of this dorm have prepared.  A tarp is laid out on the ground, near a balcony.  The guys walk over to it and begin to lower the rack but are immediately ordered not to.  They must stand and hold up the Sacrifice, while the residents of this dorm throw their presents down from the balcony.  The festivities begin with a tureen of soup.  It might be a day old, and it might be a week old.  I'm glad I'm outside the splash zone.  The soup is followed by more food, stolen from the dining hall over the past week.  Condiments from the sandwich bar help larger items stick.  Some things aren't meant to stick and instead bounce off one or more bodies before landing on the ground.

The supply of food seems endless.  Upperclassmen are hooting and hollering while our guys try to avoid the spray.  Finally they give in and stand still, resigned to their fate.  It's like the first few minutes after stepping outside into a rainstorm.  At first you try to avoid getting wet, but soon enough you are soaked to the bone a little more hardly seems to matter.  But this rain of rotting food is infinitely worse than mere water.

Eventually, this dorm runs out of things to throw and we move to the next dorm.  It's a strange parade, with the freshmen out in front.  The rest of us trail behind, trying to avoid stepping in whatever is dripping off Sacrifice and his bearers.  The sophomore who began the evening has a bottle of water, and as we walk he does his best to rinse the worst of the mess from the Sacrifice's face.

There are seven dorms to visit in all.  The "presents" seem to get more creative as the night goes on.  Bags of flour and coffee grounds are split and sprinkled over the guys.  Eggs are thrown.  Juice and milk are poured.  Between each dorm, the sophomore rinses the Sacrifice's face.  He is able to breathe, but he cannot move or avoid the "presents".

At the end of the circuit, we return home.  Another tarp has been hastily set up and the guys know what to do by this point.  They position themselves under the balcony.  This dorm, our dorm, is worst of all.  The men who live here have been through this themselves.  Every thought that began "I'm glad they didn't throw..." has morphed into "We should totally throw...!"

Someone drops a fish.  It doesn't stick, just makes a sloppy thwack as it hits one of the guys supporting the Sacrifice and slides off to the ground.  Someone saw the flour and coffee grounds and upgraded to kitty litter.  The soup here is weeks old, as is the chunky milk.  They have been preparing for a long time.

Finally, the guys are allowed to set the Sacrifice down.  They prop him up near the side of the dorm and loosen his bonds.  The upperclassmen have everyone pose for pictures.

"We should get out of here," one of my friends says as the first camera flashes.  We turn to her and realize what she means.  I look back at the guys, covered in putrid, pinkish-brown, vomit-inducing gunk.  They have their arms around each other and are laughing as the cameras capture the results of the evening.  One looks at me and I see a glint in his eye, the beginning of an evil smile.

"RUN!"

I'm the slowest member of the group and it's obvious that I'll be brought down first.  We're only halfway to the nearest dorm when I'm tackled, squealing, to the grass.  The other girls don't slow down or look back; they're trying to make it indoors before the other guys catch up to them.  But there are twelve guys and only four of us.  No one stands a chance.

Eventually we all make it back to the courtyard.  We're laughing and jostling each other, trying to ignore the unique stench rising from our skin, our clothes, the courtyard.  "Hurry up and shower," the dorm president commands us, "then meet in the lounge in fifteen minutes.  The night is only just beginning."

Under the Influence

I was in a bad mood. That's the only explanation I can offer. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was feeling reckless. And I got really, really lucky.

The evening started with dinner with my father.  At that point in my life, such an event was still almost guaranteed to leave me anxious and angry. I don't think anything particularly bad even happened. There was just a lot of baggage that I still hadn't worked through. I had a couple of glasses of wine over several courses. By the time dinner was over I was a tightly wound ball of nerves, ready to be anywhere else.

The drinking had already started when I got back to campus, though we still had several hours before we had to be at the ice rink. I had a couple of beers before we all piled into cars, but that was all. I was aware enough to know that I shouldn't drink too much in the frame of mind I was in. But those beers were enough to keep my bad mood simmering.

I let a sober friend drive my car to the ice rink. I wasn't drunk, just buzzed. Enough that I conceded I shouldn't be driving.

I'd enjoyed broomball in previous years, but that night it just made me angrier. I think anything would have, given my black mood. Instead of participating, I sat on the sidelines and stewed. By the time the game was over I felt sober and restless enough that I wanted to drive home. I even managed to convince my friend that it wouldn't be a problem. After all, I argued, I'd only had two beers, and that was hours ago.

We piled into my car for the short drive back to school. While waiting at a stop light, a car full of frosh pulled up next to me. We didn't have much farther to go, so we foolishly decided to race and see who would make it back first.

The light turned green. They saw the cop. I didn't. I was pulled over immediately.

It was at that point that I remembered I didn't have my driver's license on me. I hadn't been planning to drive, so I hadn't bothered to grab it. An instant later I realized that I also lacked current registration for my car. I was supposed to get it from my dad at dinner, but I'd forgotten.

There I was: lacking identification, in a car with expired registration under someone else's name, and a cop sauntering towards me. On his way he shone his light on the three people laying in the back of my station wagon. I couldn't even count how many laws I was breaking in the moment. I was going to jail, and there was no way out of it. Somehow, that inevitability kept me calm.

I rolled down the window as the officer approached then returned my hands to the steering wheel.

"You were going a little fast there," His voice was infuriatingly, terrifyingly, casual.

"Yes, sir, I was."

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?"

"I had a couple of beers a few hours ago. And some wine with dinner."

"How old are you?"

"21." Just don't ask for proof. Miraculously, he didn't. He did ask me to step out of the car so he could perform a roadside sobriety test.

I stood on one foot. I walked in a line. I followed his pen with my eyes while he shone a flashlight in my face.

"Do you got to school around here?"

My brain raced to catch up with this sudden shift. "Yes. I go to Harvey Mudd." I pointed to the campus, only a few blocks away. "It's right there."

"What are you studying?"

"Physics." Was this small talk?

"And you're going back to campus now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, you're free to go. Just be more careful in the future."

My brain refused to process this turn of events, but my mouth automatically formed the words "Thank you, sir."

He turned and walked back to his car. I got in mine and sat there for a minute while my friends stared at me.

"So," one of them ventured, "what happened?"

"We're free to go."

"You mean, you aren't going to jail?"

In response, the cop started his car and pulled back into the road. I took a deep breath and turned my own keys in the ignition. I accelerated to the speed limit and carefully got us back to school.

"You realize that you're the luckiest person in the world."

Tripping

Colors and patterns swirl, pulsing in time to the song that is only discernible as a beat and melody. I think I recognize it. It must be a song I know. It slips in my ears and off the back of my brain before I can catch it, though, ever elusive. I give up trying, allowing myself to just bask in the sound, to enjoy the images my brain is conjuring up to match it.

Eventually the song ends, and I claw my way out of my hallucinations. I'm sitting on the floor of a bathroom. Next to me, my roommate is hunched over the toilet. My head is resting against the wall, almost as though gravity is pulling it down there. With an effort I lift it up and sit up straight. Then I sit forward and place a hand on my friend's back.

"How ya doin?" A neutral groan answers me. "You ready to get up?" This time the groan is negative. I rub her back and lean my head back against the wall, losing myself in the next song.

I lose track of how many times the pattern repeats. At some point a guy comes into the bathroom, reminding me that we are not in our own bathroom. "Is she okay?" I nod. "Do you want help getting her back to her room?"

I check with my roommate, then look back up at the guy. "Not yet. Can we stay here a bit more?"

"I'll check." I'm reminded that we aren't in his room either. Where are we? Oh, right. We came up here to smoke with one of the seniors. But my roommate hasn't smoked much before, and whatever he had was particularly strong.

I slip again, briefly. The guy returns with a glass, which he fills at the sink before handing to me. Silent permission that we can stay a little longer at least. And he'll stay, too, back in the room where he continues to smoke. Some people deal with it better than others.

The music takes me again.

Time loses all meaning as I drift between the bathroom and the hallucinations. At some point I surface, and my roommate is ready to make the trek back to our room. I help her stand up and scoop up the now empty glass with us. We exit back through the senior's room. Our other friend is still on his couch, but he stands when we come in.

"Thanks." I return the glass to the top of a speaker, the closest flat surface. Our host waves his acknowledgement as the three of us stumble out of his room and into the relatively clear air. We descend the stairs to our own room slowly. Sudden movements are the enemy here. At least breathing comes easier.

Our room is blessedly close, one of the perks of living in the dorms. I help my roommate into bed and put a trash can within her reach. Then I thank my friend for helping. I'm just about to crawl into bed myself when I remember that I still have laundry in the washing machine. I definitely can't leave it for the morning.

I shouldn't even be doing laundry tonight. Winter break starts tomorrow, and I've got a flight in the morning. I should be all packed. But sometime during tonight's revelry, I got dragged into a shower fully clothed. The episode involved being literally dragged across the ground, otherwise I might have been content to throw the clothes in the dryer and be done with it. But the dirt and grime demanded actual soap, especially since I was planning to wear those pants the next day.

Summoning up every ounce of sobriety I can muster I make my way to the laundry room. The light here is somehow more artificial than anywhere else in the dorm. It must be a trick of laundry rooms. The machines bend light waves or polarize it or something. My drug-addled brain doesn't help matters.

While I'm changing the clothes over, the senior comes in. Guess it's a popular time for laundry.

"You're friend okay?" he asks me

"She'll be fine," I assure him. He nods in response and I head out to the courtyard.

All I need to do now is stay awake for the next 45 minutes. Then I can collect my clothes and finally collapse into my bed. The flight tomorrow will be hell, but at least it's the only thing I'll have to do. In the meantime I grab a soda from the vending machine. I'm not feeling any more sober than I was earlier, lights are still dancing and the ground isn't quite solid or still, but I'm strangely proud of myself for holding myself together as well as I have tonight.

Sanctuary

The first impression on entering the room is that of space. Dorm rooms often feel cramped. But with only one student in what is usually a double, there's room to spread out a little. To allow for a bit of empty space that makes the room feel larger.

To the left a stacked bed and desk are pushed against the far wall. Between the door and the desk sits a papasan chair. The purple cushion is stained from years of life in a college dorm, and the base is beginning to come apart. It's still a comfy retreat when homework tends more to reading than working on problem sets.

The bed against the wall is covered in a bright sheet: blue and orange and green stripes. It was the cheapest set available at Target, with a texture not that far removed from sandpaper. Though the bed isn't meant to be slept on, it's a nice way to brighten up the room. And it was certainly necessary to hide the standard-issue mattress, which may very well be as old as the dorm itself.

Below the bed is the desk: homework central. A laptop computer and printer take up most of the space. A two-shelf bookcase on the desk holds textbooks for calculus and quantum mechanics, along with novels for classes on Arthurian Literature and 16th Century Europe. There's also a complete set of Neil Gaiman's Sandman comics, about the only form of pleasure reading a college student has time for. The desk also holds a notebook and all the other detritus of a student at work: pencils, coffee mugs, chocolate, etc.

Forming on L with the bunk is an unstacked desk. This one has a television, rather than a laptop, though it's not good for much other than playing video games, of which there aren't very many. It does a good job of cutting the room in half, dividing the work space near the door from the relaxation space on the far wall. With only one student in a room built for two, the space can be divided horizontally rather than vertically, a rare luxury in dorm life.

The second bed is underneath the window, as far from the door as possible. Rather than cheap, bright sheets, this one is dressed in pastel colors and a soft, fluffy comforter. Though this comforter has also seen better days by now. It's nearing the end of its life faster than a blanket should, probably because it sees so much more use.

If you walk towards the back of the room, rather than standing by the door, you'll see the other touches that indicate this area is geared more towards free time than work time. A mini-fridge, placed between desk and bed, is stocked with alcohol. The set of drawers beneath this desk is filled with snacks rather than office supplies. And hidden beneath the desk is a hookah. Hidden beneath the hookah is a missing patch of carpet, burned away by a stray coal one evening.

Taken all together, the room presents the balanced life that the student is striving for and seems close to achieving. It's not dedicated solely to homework, the way so many dorm rooms are. You don't have to climb to a bunk bed to escape from the constant work, just move behind a second desk. There's plenty of room to entertain friends, not to mention the readily available snacks and entertainment. All in all a perfect space.

Relapse

"I have to go. Homework."

It's not a lie. I do have homework. Math problems. Spanish writing. History reading. I'll probably be up past midnight finishing it all. Then class at eight.

I turn back to my computer, but I can't see it. Tears are blurring my vision. Not that I'd be able to focus on anything if my eyes were dry.

Cracks are opening up. Words that hurt, that cut. Words that I though I had a handle on. It turns out I didn't. It turns out that no matter how many times I repeat them to myself, however I try to build up a shield, they still have unimaginable power in the mouth of someone else.

I failed again. I probably shouldn't have made that call at all. BUt not making it would have felt like a failure, too. A different kind of failure. If I hadn't called, it would have been a slow erosion. A continuation of the attack on my self-worth that's been my ever-present companion for the bast few weeks. This wayit all comes at once. There's something to be said for ripping off the bandaid, but this may be more than I can bear.

It hurts. Inside, outside, everywhere. My stomach, my heart, my eyes, my brain. Nothing makes sense. I can't get a grip on it, can't figure out what I did wrong, can't begin to make it right. Any optionI come up with seems to only lead to more hurt, more failure.

The pain expands, fills the entire room. I don't know where I begins and the pain ends. I lost my grip on whatever had been keeping me afloat for the past few months and now I'm drowning. The only thing I know for sure is that I don't have time to deal with this. I don't have time to come to terms with what I'm feeling, to ride it out or understand it or even stuff it back in a box. There's graph theory to learn, a Spanish essay to write, The Royal Society of London to read about.

My eyes focus on my jewelry box. It contains a solution. It's not a good solution, but it's the only one I have right now. I don't have time for anything else.

My hands fumble at the lock, open the drawer. There it is: a slim, sliver blade, ripped from a cheap Bic razor. I haven't looked at it since high school. But I carried it halfway across the country in case I needed it.

I pull down my pants and slice across my upper thigh. A line of red appears as if by magic and starts dripping. I have a kleenex ready to keep it from staining anything. I take a breath and the pain shrinks down, like Alice after a bite of mushroom. It's contained now, in this bright red gash on my thigh.

I mop up the blood with another kleenex, then go to the sink for my first aid kit. Alcohol swabs and a bandaid. See? I can take care of myself. I can handle this. It's just a little cut, nothing so serious after all.

Back at my desk it's easy to focus on graph theory. My thigh hurts sharply, but I put it out of my mind. Now that it's physical and dealt with the pain is an easy thing to ignore.

I'm not avoiding anything. Not really. I'll deal with it later, I promise myself. As soon as the semester's over I can fall to pieces. In the meantime I'll use the razor to keep myself stitched together.

Quest

brownie?

I look up from my math homework to see the message and smile. I try to gauge how close I am to a stopping point. I'm far enough ahead that this doesn't really need to be done tonight. Then AIM dings again

quest?

My reply is quick.

yes and yes

Homework forgotten, I grab my sweatshirt from my bed and a vanilla Coke from the mini-fridge. I swallow a few mouthfuls of Coke, refill the bottle with vodka, slip on my flip flops and head outside.

Sarah and I exit our suites at almost the same moment, and we meet at the top of the staircase between our rooms. She has her own drink in hand, and we're both sipping as we head down. The conversation stays light and inconsequential, focusing mostly on homework and how much it sucks. Are we planning to go to tutoring for help with the physics homework tomorrow? Of course. Are we looking forward to the party this weekend? Absolutely. But what will we wear?

We exit our dorm and head south, leaving our campus and crossing the street to the campus next door. Our campus has been dubbed one of the ugliest in America. Some enterprising public relations artist coined the phrase "Neo-Mayan" to describe the rows of concrete buildings pockmarked with concrete blocks. Next door is one of the most beautiful campuses in America, with open walkways, secret gardens, and gorgeous courtyards, all surrounded by a medieval wall. It's a sanctuary in more ways than one.

The coffee shop is nestled in the center of the campus, right next to the dining hall. They share one of the many picturesque courtyards. Sarah buys the brownie this time while I claim a table for us. After a quick check to make sure no one we know is here, and with an eye on the door just in case, we relax into the real conversation. We complain about our roommates. We gossip about our friends. We leave no stone unturned in this ritual cleansing of ours.

When the brownie has been devoured and the grievances fully aired (and our first drinks of the evening long since drunk) we turn our attention to the next task as hand: finding boyfriends.

You'd think this would be easy. Two smart, pretty young girls at a school that is 75% male. But it has proven to be quite the challenge. There were a few false starts at the beginning of the school year. Since then it's been nothing but one night stands. So here we are, almost done with our first year of college and with no relationships to show for it. We are determined to change that.

There's a party at another college, farther south. But it's more of a gathering really, and it turns out that we don't know anyone there. An exploration of that campus reveals that nothing else of interest is going on. We trek back up to our own campus, determined not to give up quite yet.
Of the eight dorms on campus there are three where anything interesting might be happening right now. We come upon the first one as soon as we get back to campus. Maybe one of the guys who lives here deserves another shot? They'd be good for some entertainment anyway. But a knock on the door reveals them to be doing homework. Studying. And they refuse to be distracted.

We head across the courtyard to the next dorm. A knock on this door reveals a beer pong game in progress. These guys never let us down. We grab beers of our own, settle on chairs, and proceed to tell Zach and Kevin all about our quest for boyfriends, which is not going nearly as well as we'd hoped. Not that it ever does.

Eventually we plan to make our way to the final dorm on the list. But for now there's beer pong. Then another game and drunken shenanigans besides. We end up staying at North for hours.

When it's time to head to bed, we're feeling a bit bittersweet. It was a fun evening, sure. Beer pong is always a good time. And the guys there are always good for a laugh. But they're not exactly boyfriend material. Somehow, though, our quest always leads back to their room. If you'd told us then that these were the guys we'd eventually marry we wouldn't believe you. But quests for strangers can't hold a candle to evenings spilling into months and years spent together.

Pierced

"God that sucked!"

"It was pretty awful," I agree. "I really don't think I passed."

"I didn't even finish."

We'd both been working on the exam right up until the professor called time. I'd almost managed to finish writing out my answer on the last problem, and I could only hope that I didn't get points off for missing my last semi colon and bracket.

What kind of CS exam is taken with paper and pencil anyway?

My friend is still complaining volubly as we walk back to our dorm. I'm going over the last problem in my head, questioning my entire approach when her question penetrates my concentration.

"Do you want to go get pierced?"

"Yes." I don't even think about it. Getting another piercing is exactly what I want to do right now. The adrenaline, the pain, even the care afterwards, all of it is the release I need. Getting pierced is a much more socially acceptable way to go through that cycle than using a razor blade. Again.

My friend has probably done exactly the same mental math, though it'll be a few more weeks before I pick up on that from her. This isn't the first time we've gotten new piercings this year. It will be my fourth, and I'd have to count the new holes in her ears to be sure.

It started after the first party of the school year. Four of us drunkenly decided that we wanted to get our belly buttons pierced. When we woke up the next morning, it still seemed like a good idea. We went together and spent the next several weeks holding shot glasses of salt water over the piercings together while we healed.

It became something of an addiction. That's not exactly the word though. After the first one, each new piercing was a response to extreme stress. It provided a quick release. And picking out matching jewelry is a nice distraction from the rest of life right now.

The piercing parlor is only a few blocks from campus, so it doesn't take long to get there. I'm going for a second hole in the cartilage of my left ear. My friend is completing what will eventually be a continuous row of holes along the edge of one ear. We're old hat at this by now. We quickly pick out new jewelry and go through the after care instructions. Then one at a time we head into the back.

The pain is exquisite and over quickly. It helps purge all of the anxiety we've been feeling since the test ended, and we head back to campus feeling lighter and more relaxed. I begin to wonder where my next piercing will go; maybe it's time to switch to the other ear.

I get my test back in class the next week with a bright red A on the top. For the first (and, it should be noted, only) time, I've received the top grade in the entire class. Maybe, just maybe, I don't need to be so worried about everything.

Orange

The thing about going to a science-oriented school is that you sometimes do really strange things in the name of science. Like the time I attempted to find out if eating a lot of carrots really does turn you orange.

I got nominated to carry out this experiment because I was the whitest of our friends. We figured that any color change would show up best on my incredibly pale skin. It was decided that I needed to eat a pound of carrots every day for two weeks. My reward for sticking to this regimen would be a six pack of beer. Which certainly sounded like a reasonable payment at the time. With hindsight I know that this wasn't really worth it. But the memories are.

Bargain struck, we went to the store to get my supply of carrots. I also picked up some ranch dressing to help them go down. This experiment wasn't carried out with a lot of rigor or research, but on that first day  I really did eat nothing but raw carrots and ranch dressing. It turns out that this is a large volume of food, but there aren't that many calories or other nutrients in carrots. By the end of the day I was both full and starving, which is a very strange feeling.

The second day was worse. I ate my pound of carrots, but I broke down at dinner and had some leftover beef. It wasn't great beef, but I was so starved for protein at this point that it remains one of the better tasting meals of my life. The meal was delicious, and I was beginning to worry about my calorie intake. We decided to alter the parameters of the experiment. So long as I ate the carrots, I could also eat anything else I wanted. To avoid the full/hungry paradox, I saved the carrots for dinner.

It should come as no surprise that I didn't always finish my pound of carrots. I come back around to the fact that it's just a lot of food. I figured it would go down easier if the carrots were cooked. And I believe that this was the reason the experiment ultimately failed. I steamed the carrots. I soaked them in butter. I glazed them in brown sugar. I got them all down, but I think that cooking them broke down whatever it is that's supposed to turn you orange.

And, full disclosure, I completely skipped two days. The Fourth of July is just not the day for this kind of diet.

In the end, my skin didn't change color, though my poop was bright orange. I did receive my beer, though, and I felt it was well deserved. By a twist of fate, the experiment ended the day before my 21st birthday, and the lack of carrots was one of my better presents that year. Right up there with the ability to drink legally and the final Harry Potter book.

To celebrate my birthday and the end of the experiment, a couple of friends and I went to the only bar walking distance from campus. We asked the bartender for a tasty shooter, and he presented us with something called carrot cake. Naturally, my friends forced me to drink it. It was almost five years before I could bring myself to touch another carrot.

Nightswimming

It's as dark as it ever gets in LA. The cliff to our back helps block out most of the light from the city. Meanwhile the moonless night means that ocean is essentially black.

Except that it isn't. The tide is coming in, and every time a wave crashes on the shore it erupts in a bluish glow. We weren't expecting this to happen during our skinny dipping adventure, and we get scared that the water isn't safe to swim in. But a quick call to a local friend alleviates our worries.

We strip down and run out into the waves. Playing with the algae turns out to be lots of fun. Slow movements create amazing glowing wakes. Splashing excites them. One of the girls is a swimmer and is willing to go out a little deeper than the rest of us. We can see the glowing outline of her body as she swims around much better than we can see her. The wakes highlight our movements as we play in the water.

It isn't too long before our fear of being discovered drives us out of the water and back into our clothes. But we aren't ready to go home yet. Instead, we head to Irvine, where one friend grew up and still has access to the community hot tub.

Access is perhaps an exaggeration. The pool closed hours before we arrived. Not to be disappointed, we decide to scale the wall. We're still giddy from skinny dipping and breaking another rule seems like the thing to do. It isn't long before we're sitting in the hot tub, deciding it's time for another round of skinny dipping.

Not ten minutes after we'd stripped down, security shows up. The two officers kindly point out that we're not allowed to be there, given that we aren't residents and the pool is closed. They also show us the security camera, trained on the hot tub, which has captured our naked shenanigans. We get dressed as quickly as we can and flee to the car, more amused than embarrassed, glad to have a story to tell.

Midterm

The theo mech midterm.

It's been looming large in my mind since I declared as a physics major. I could occasionally convince myself that the older students were exaggerating, as they had with the first chemistry midterm. There was no way it could live up to their tales. But then I watched the chemistry majors go through the pchem midterm last semester - 4 hours, 1 question - and I knew there was no hyperbole here.

On the first day of the semester, the professor confirmed our worst fears. He tried to lighten the blow, to explain that the format was meant to reduce stress. But it only ever added to it.

And now it's here.

I've been studying every night for a week. I skipped my grandmother's funeral. I might feel bad about that. If it weren't on the other side of the country. If I'd ever been close to my grandmother. If our relationship hadn't been tainted by the bad blood between her and my mother. As it is, it's just another fact of life. Midterms are more important than the funeral. If I'm being honest, they're significantly less scary, too.

The point is that I've prepared for this exam as much as I can. I don't feel ready. I'll never feel ready. The only way out is through. A passing grade will be good enough.

The exam officially starts at 6 pm. It's in the middle of the week, as though we don't have classes the next morning. Come to think of it, I'm not sure anyone does. Morning classes are mostly filled by frosh and sophomores. It's the rare upperclassman who has lecture before noon. Unless they prefer it that way.

Following an early dinner the junior physics class, all thirty-two of us, gather in the small lecture hall on the far end of academics. We take our seats and make sure to leave buffer chairs. This gives us more room to spread out. The professor begins to pass out the exams, face down, and explain the rules.

That makes it sound like a game. Would parameters be better? Expectations? We're on the honor system after all.

I digress.

The exam is open book, open note, open Nobel Laureate, if we know one, the professor jokes. We can use calculators, a rarity for exams. The only people we cannot consult are each other and the internet in general. Not that anyone can get a signal down here in the basement.

We may work on the exam for as long as it takes. Essentially. Pizza has been ordered and will arrive at midnight. The professor will collect the exams at 9 the next morning. We may take as many breaks as we like, so long as we don't actually leave the building. Rumor has it that any remaining students race through the halls on the wheeled chairs sometime after midnight. I can only hope that I'm not around to see those rumors proven true or false.

On the signal, we turn over our exams and get to work. There are four questions, worth a possible total of 20 points. Which means that any mistake will cost us dearly. We have access to our materials and all the time in the world, which does take some of the pressure off.

It also means that the exam is really difficult, designed to test a deep understanding of the material rather than a more superficial knowledge. The questions are variations on homework questions, each demanding that we make connections that haven't yet been spelled out for us. Not that I've come to expect anything less from a physics exam.

I work industriously and almost gasp when the first student, easily the smartest person in our class, turns in his exam after a mere hour. But I'm not actually that far behind him. There are things that I could probably figure out if I stayed here and worked until dawn, but I've long since learned to settle for good enough. A perfect score isn't worth the sleepless nights or lack of social life, and subsequent mental breakdowns, it demands.

I turn my own exam in shortly before 8 and dash back to my dorm, determined to get there before my bowling team leaves for tonight's IM event. Roughly half the class is still there when I leave, and they're the ones who probably will stick around until the professor returns.

Ultimately I score 16/20. Looking over the answers, I see a couple of obvious mistakes. If I'd given myself another hour, with a break and fresh eyes to look over the exam, I could possibly have pushed my score up to a 17 or 18 out of 20. A perfect score was always out of the question for me. And it would have cost me an evening of bowling with my friends, which wasn't a sacrifice I was willing to make.

Lazarus

"Oh no! I think it's dying!"

"Maybe it's just tired?"

"Tired?"

"...Or out of battery? Can we change the battery?"

Four of us are in my room, sitting in something that resembles a circle, passing a pipe around. I've turned out the overhead fluorescent lights, opting for a scattering of paper lanterns that leave the room dim. All the better to admire the official water cup. I bought the cheap, plastic toy at a rodeo a few weeks previously. The LEDs in the base, which light up and spin around, entranced me. It quickly became a staple of smoking sessions in my room. Everyone had to drink out of it and anyone who couldn't was deemed too stoned to smoke anymore.

Now it was dying.

"There must be a battery."

"I doubt it. A new battery would probably cost more than the cup itself."

"Easier to replace, though."

"Let me see it." Our friend, nicknamed Jesus in honor of his long curly hair, large nose, and commitment to the vegetarian lifestyle, right down to his hemp shoes, picks the cup up and starts to turn it over.

"Wait! Dump it in the sink first."

"Good call."

It takes him a few tries, but Jesus is ultimately able to stand and carry the cup over to the sink, where he empties it. He turns on the light and unscrews the bottom of the cup. The rest of us watch for a few tense moments, while he fiddles with the electronics that have been revealed. Before long the cup is lighting up again, and we cheer.

He refills the cup, turns out the bright light, and returns to his place in the circle.

"It lives!"

"Jesus brought it back to life."

"So it's Lazarus?"

"Yes!"

"Henceforth the stoner cup shall be known as Lazarus."

I hold the cup up, then take a sip and pass it to the left. Everyone does the same, and I pass the pipe along behind the cup. Then I dissolve into giggles, and the rest of my friends follow suit.

Know It All

All freshmen are required to take Special Relativity during their first semester at Mudd. It's taught pass/fail which takes some of the pressure off. And really, the math is pretty simple. Just multiply all your standard mechanics equations by gamma and you're good to go. The difficulty lies in the concepts.  Time slows down and space stretches out. The only constant is the speed of light and it is always constant.  You cannot travel faster than the speed of light. Even if two rhinos are charging at each other, both traveling 300,000,000 meters per second, they will approach each other at 300,000,000 meters per second. The math works out, but it takes a while to wrap your brain around.

Worse, these new concepts lead to all sorts of ideas that seem to contradict themselves. Half of our time is devoted to unraveling these paradoxes and trying to make some sense out of them.

Professor Emeritus technically retired last year.  But he knows this subject so well that he decided to continue teaching it. He guides us gently through the many logical conundrums we encounter.

One day, the entire freshman class is gathered in the lecture hall while Professor Emeritus explains a particularly tricky paradox. As he finishes showing us how the math manages to remain consistent no matter which reference frame you're in, the hand of a student in the front row shoots up.

The nasally voice begins, "Well, have you considered...?" Clearly this kid thinks Special Relativity is as real as Hogwarts. He is also under the impression that he's the smartest person in the room. It was probably true in high school; most of the students here were the top of their high school classes. A few have yet to realize that this is no longer the case.

When the student finishes poking holes in the paradox and disproving all of relativity, he sits back haughtily. His profile belies his smugness, and I just know there's a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He's sure he has stumped the professor. For an instant, the class is silent, wondering what will happen.

Then Professor Emeritus throws his hands up in the air. The chalk he was holding goes flying. "Oh my god," he deadpans, "I hadn't thought of that. My career is over!"

All of the tension from a moment earlier is released as laughter. Professor Emeritus proceeds to explain, quite kindly, why the know-it-all is completely wrong. Meanwhile the know-it-all has been reminded that we're here to learn, not show off.

Joshua Tree

It is a truth universally acknowledged that college students in Southern California must attempt to go camping at Joshua Tree at least once. Even if they hate camping. After all, it's different when there's alcohol involved. It might mitigate the lack of running water.

With this in mind, I join three of my friends in a car bound for the desert. The National Park is 100 miles from campus, and we got a bit of a late start, so it's nearly dark by the time we get there. Joshua Tree is huge, so we never considered that it might fill up. But this is a holiday weekend, so it shouldn't really surprise us when we get turned away at the gate. It does though. We're disappointed and wondering if there's another campsite nearby. The last thing we want to do is drive all the way back to campus tonight.

The park ranger assures us that there is another campsite. It isn't even that far, just on the other side of the highway. She hands us a slip of paper with directions and wishes us well. While Jen's turning the car around, I examine the paper. The place looks sketchy, but we're young and reckless and determined to go camping tonight. So I guide Jen from Joshua Tree to the overflow camping.

From Hwy 62, turn north on Sunfair Road and travel for two miles to Broadway. Turn right (east) on Broadway. The pavement will end about 100 yards after this turn. Travel one mile to a line of telephone poles running perpindicular (north and south). This one lane, unmarked dirt road is Cascade. Turn left (north) and travel 1/2 mile until a single lane, unmarked dirt road is passed. This road is Sunflower. Camping is allowed for the next 1/2 mile on the east side of Cascade.

We make our way along the one-lane roads slowly, wondering if something with this many potholes can really be called a road. But it isn't too long before we encounter another group who didn't make it into the park that night.

We find something that looks like it's probably a campsite and pull over. We get the tent set up and pull our the beer, determined to enjoy ourselves out in the middle of nowhere. The fields run off in all directions, with no indication of civilization. Except for the glow of Los Angeles in the distance. The city washes out most of the stars, even this far away from it, leaving me missing my mountains. The upside is that this campsite is free and secluded. And we're still close enough to Joshua Tree to go hiking there in the morning. But the entire trip ends up being an important lesson in planning ahead.

Inner Tube Water Polo

A whistle blows shrilly, piercing the general cacophony and signaling the start of the game. The ball thrown into the middle of the pool is immediately grabbed by one team and they're off swimming. If you can call it swimming when everyone, goalies included, is impeded by an innertube helping them stay afloat.

The pool is divided in half to allow for two games to play out simultaneously. This adds to the general feeling of chaos. Water splashes, people yell, whistles blow. All of it happens under lights that are a bit too bright, a bit too fake. Teams line up on the bleachers, waiting for their games to begin. Everyone is gripped by the games that are currently being played, cheering on their friends and heckling the competition.

Our dorm has managed to field three teams this year. No one expects much from the frosh team, but the A team is expected to win the whole season. The other dorms only have one team each, and some of them struggled to field even that many players. But the fact that every dorm has at least one team representing them speaks to the popularity of inner tube water polo. It is the intramural event of the year.

I've never played. I'm not great at sports, and even with an inner tube keeping me afloat I worry that I would drown. Or lost a contact. Or get seriously injured. It's a shame because when a girl scores it's worth twice as many points. But I don't feel too badly. It's not like we have a shortage of female players, even with three teams to fill. My roommate even plays on an actual water polo team, which gives us a huge advantage and is a big part of the reason we're expected to dominate this season.

Apart from the fact that we often dominate. We are the jock dorm, after all.

I contribute by cheering on my dorm mates and helping to keep score when it's needed. I love the chaos of this sport. I love how quickly the games move; there's a time limit on possession to make sure the ball keeps moving. I love how short the games are, lasting less than half an hour each. And I mostly love feeling like a part of it while staying dry on the sidelines, slipping in to my preferred role of cheerleader.

After the game, the entire team and spectators troop back up to the dorm together, talking, laughing, shouting, comparing plays and working out strategies. Once we reach the courtyard, we gather in a circle for the post-game chant. As one we cheer at the top of our lungs

North dorm's the best

All the rest suck

69 to Bitch

Rah rah fuck

Hex

It's the second half of the evening. Part two of the grand hazing tradition. The reason we all remember this evening so fondly, despite what happens earlier.

After showers and new clothes have removed the worst of the stench, everyone gathers in the dorm lounge. The couches have all been pushed out to form a circle. Chairs fill in gaps here and there. Tables in the middle of the room hold bottles of cheap tequila and margarita mix. The curtains have been drawn closed and the lights are off. Candles are scattered around, and the low, flickering light sets the mood for the more serious ritual about to take place.

The four guys in charge of this event sit together on one couch, making it the defacto head of the room. The rest of us find seats as we trickle in, clutching the shot glasses we've been told to bring. Once everyone has arrived the doors are closed. Only residents are given the key codes for those doors. It's the best assurance we have that the rest of the student body will be kept out of this event. The first part of Voodoo Hex may be a very public display, but the second is and remains a secret, sacred bonding experience.

The rules are explained, the bottles passed. Many people create a mixture of tequila and margarita mix in a cup or Nalgene, to be used to refill their shot glass through the night. Others have brought beers. Some few are sticking to water. It doesn't matter what you choose to drink tonight, and no one will harass anyone over their choices.

The room quickly falls silent. More quickly than I've ever seen this group fall silent before. I didn't really think silence was possible in this loud, rambunctious dorm that spends most of it's time wishing it were a fraternity. But silence we have. Then we begin.

"I place a hex on my family's expectations," says the first guy and throws back whatever is in his shot glass. His friend to his left raises his own glass and intones "I close the circle" before taking his own drink. The words are carried around the circle. One by one each of us raises our own glass, repeats the words, and then drinks or not. When they've gone all the way around, the original speaker lifts his glass again to tell us that "the circle is closed". Focus shifts to his left and a new hex is declared.

Many of the hexes are on common annoyances. Early morning classes, upcoming midterms, and difficult homework assignments are all mentioned, though none more than once. Some people keep it light, using their hex to call out the dining hall food. Others use the evening to find some small relief about a more serious grievance, often something that hasn't been shared widely before. Everyone is acknowledged and shown the same respect, regardless of what they choose to hex. Nothing will be brought up again without permission. What happens in this room, on this night, will not be shared with anyone who isn't here.

At the end of the evening, by which point it is early morning, people take their glasses and shuffle off to their rooms, helping friends who got a little too drunk or hugging friends who shared something heavy. The burden has been lightened, just a little, for this night, by the ritualized sharing of it. The people here are a bit closer to being a family. The dorm might be a home. Albeit one that smells of cheap tequila and stale beer.