Fratio Fever Dream

It started like any other Tuesday. I told myself I’d “just stop by for a bit,” maybe grab a drink, and head home. But the second I stepped onto the Phi Delt fratio, I knew I had made a mistake—and I knew my 8am would not be hearing from me today.

The fratio—God bless her—looked like an outdoor TGI Fridays had been hit by a hurricane of beer cans and White Claw boxes. I was engulfed in the sweet smell of rotting wood that buckled every time someone jumped.

I wandered over to the bar and in utter silence a pledge with greased back hair (are we in the 80s? Why does it look like you just showered?) handed me a styrofoam cup with a mystery substance.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
I drank it.

By 11:48 PM, I was dancing with a group of guys who looked nothing like the LinkedIn version of themselves. The vibe: chugging contest meets the kids who yap in the back of stats while my professor is talking about women with UTIs. At one point, I made eye contact with sir mental health chair, who was patrolling the hallway like a camp counselor turned security guard.
“You good?” he asked.
“Emotionally? No,” I replied.
He nodded. “Just don’t go in the laundry room.”

I never found out what was in the laundry room.

All I know is, I left Phi Delt at 2AM not by choice but by fear of standards and a deep, unshakable terror of Surge.

Five stars. Terrifying. Magical. I’ll be back Friday.