>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
August 14, 2005

A wise woman once said that love is like a jellyfish. It’s natural to be curious of its mystery and beauty. Its boneless structure even offers a promise of never being broken, but sometimes when you get too close it has the power to sting you. And even though the pain lessens with time, it still leaves a scar. But a jellyfish, like love, is always beautiful.

May I offer a rebuttal? If the only immediate cure to dull the pain of a “love sting” is someone urinating on your leg, well, just stay the fuck out of the water. There are plenty of people on the sand who aren’t retardedly hypnotized by the blue iridescent jelly tentacles of love who will be more than happy to fish sand out of your crevices for you.

And where’s the love in college? Anywhere you want it. Dorm rooms are typical, but not mandatory, and recently bar bathrooms have become more and more popular. But honestly, how sexy is it to fuck someone over a toilet surrounded by other girls fixing their hair, while others take a not so discreet dump in the stall next to you—lest we forget the caketopper of criers who just had a first hand encounter with blasphemy as her crush wickedly took a shot with their flatmate without her. But don’t worry baby, people who go deep sea diving in bathrooms only end up with crabs—and if there’s any justice in this world, a flaming case of herpes.

“You want to talk about reputations? Imagine being known as the girl who got her braces stuck to the mattress when the guy was drilling for oil.”

You crazy freshmen crack me up. The DePaul students are back in school, and the bars are already flooded with fresh faces and fake ID’s for bouncers to cut up or accept, depending on how hot the chicks in your group are and if the guy thinks he has a chance with them. Ladies, if you’re in an underage girl group with only one ugly chick, get rid of her. I’m not trying to be mean, Helga and friends, but it’s called “survival of the fittest” for a reason, and city bars are a lot more selective than the ones in the cornfields—if you want to stay in line all night, fine, all the more room for me to get a drink at the bar. It’s so easy to pick out you damn freshmen. All you drink is rum and coke. But then again it is all you know, besides Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Oh, to be young and unfamiliar with liquor again.

Guys in a group have it rougher than anyone though. The best I can tell you is to stand in front of a hot girl group, find the one with the best personality and best looking to make jokes, and then when you get to the bouncer casually mention, “They’re with us too.” And at least then you’ll have some fucking hope. But once you reach the holy grail of the open bar door watch out for any new friends who continue to use the ancient, but ever so popular greeting, of stomach smashing, and line cutting. Don’t panic. The solution is simple. You want in? It’s survival of the fittest. Tell the bouncer you’ve never met this guy in your life, and get your party inside, while the bouncer ushers your uninvited buddy to the curb next to his consolation prize, Helga, who speaks little English and does not know how to get back to her dorm.

Everywhere I go fly girls will please me.
East to west coast college girls are easy.

Isn’t that the truth? Every Wednesday night after work my co-workers and I go across the street for a drink. A drink. As in singular, as in no shots, as in one V&T gets to be nursed for an hour, as in it really sucks having to be responsible. Especially when all we talk about was how great college is—was—whatever. And if there’s anything I’ve determined by talking to them, it’s that freshman year is when you develop your sexual reputation and that environment really is everything. And what’s saddest is that according to these guys, the safest place to have sex is in a public bathroom—at least that way you can have some privacy.

Trust me. Read on.

You want to talk about reputations? Imagine being known as the girl who got her braces stuck to the mattress when the guy was drilling for oil. (Ran out of deep sea diving euphemisms Helga, sorry.) It’s already hard being one of the ten people in college with braces left, but it just adds insult to injury when paramedics and the on-call emergency orthodontists have to ask you to show them exactly what you were doing when her mouth got trapped. I think the question on everyone’s mind was not about oil drilling, but why in the hell there weren’t any sheets. Come on people, there’s protection, and there’s dignity protection. That should not be taken for granted, metal mouth.

College is definitely the place and time for experimenting. And while most of us choose to keep our sexual experimentation private, there are those who choose to make it public. Ever since the Hilton tapes leaked, voyeurism seems to be less and less available, but recent ones have emerged with a college girl in her dorm room who had somehow convinced herself that it was okay for a guy to bang her while wearing a Nixon mask, complete with his famous peace sign signature. My god woman, have some pride. If you’re going to have sex with a masked president at least go Democratic. Watergate is over, but the love sting Bill Clinton left on Monica will last forever.

And girls, you’re not even safe with saying you’re a virgin, because I guarantee there will always be some guy that says, “You’re a virgin? Sweet. Can I see?”

Having been out of the college scene for almost three months now, a couple of friends and I decided to join Lavalife.com to get to know more people in the area. But in an attempt to justify this common display of idiocy, we had just seen Must Love Dogs, and had high hopes, but low expectations of meeting an overweight, overly-layered vintage T-shirt dresser, with a full set of hair, overwhelming us with his romantic relationship theories, just like in the movie. Imagine our surprise when all we found were freaks and liars. “Hi, I live in the loop and am an investment banker, where do you live?” I mean, we all lie, but at least have a picture to back it up. When I checked this guy’s photo, there he was, sophisticated as ever in a jumbo White Sox jersey flashing the notorious Latin King gang sign with his fingers. Investment banker? Sure you are buddy. Where do you want to meet? Underneath the 38th Street Viaduct next to the projects? Awesome.