A Student’s Journey of Alcohol Appreciation
They say smells carry the strongest memories, and there is truly nothing like the eau de arsenic from a freshly cracked handle of Barton’s to bring back sweet, sweet memories of stumbling home from DJ’s to puke in the Day Hall showers. We Cuse students enjoy the finer things in life—that’s why we pay upwards of $40,000 a year to beg our way into frat basements and enjoy delicacies like peppermint schnapps from the bottle, followed by a dash of chocolate syrup poured straight down the throat.
The “I’m Schmacked” video was a huge deciding factor when we chose to BLEED ORANGE, so as soon as Mom and Dad dropped us off at our first week, we knew what we had to do to fit in at the #1 party school. Grab Kevin, the only kid on the floor whose fake actually works at the liquor store, have him buy a 30 rack of Natty Daddies, and head straight to Castle Court. We were surprised when we were met not with the dager to end all dagers, but a parking lot filled with Range Rovers. No matter, we had our Natty’s and were ready to hit Euclid.
Sophomore year got even better when we realized the Watson Hall RA’s gave less fucks then the hardos on the Mount, and that we could throw our very own quad pregames. You’d matured over the summer, and now had your own fake ready for the scene at Harry's. You’re 19 now, and who knows what kind of madness can go on when you’re directly under the CVS pharmacy.
You also had something you didn’t have freshmen year, friends, and a lot of them since you proved yourself after downing eight shots in 20 minutes and managing not be hospitalized. You didn’t get why your 21 year-old brother complained about how expensive going out was. What’s even the point of forking over money for cocktails? You can get a bottle of Fleischmann's and some cranberry juice for $10 and the night is made. Towards April of sophomore year, even the thought of junior year blew your mind. Soon you would be an upperclassman, and have your very own dank basement to party in.
Once junior year hit, things started to get real. The future was in sight, and since you were serious now, you sacrificed Tuesday’s at Lucy’s in order to make it to your 9:30 a.m. Life was getting hard to say the least. No longer the young and desirable freshman you once were, and also not a senior at Chuck’s, the days were starting to blend into one hangover after another. You couldn’t wait until Thursday night rolled around and you could sling back a refreshing Smirnoff and Polar. Mayfest was your saving grace, and you couldn’t stop the tears and Instragrams from rolling as you realized it was your very second-to-last one. The end of junior year meant the world was 365 days closer to ending. Better to down a Natty or ten and not think about it.
By senior year, everyone managed to become snooty wine drinkers despite our unemployment. Maybe it was beer and wine class, or classy times studying abroad buying casual legal drinks at dinner. Or maybe, turning 21 took the thrill out of it. Going to the corner store for a Four Loko was no longer a display of how seriously badass you were. It was weird. Four Loko tastes like cough syrup and despair and we all know it. For seniors, drinking out with friends became an event, a time to laugh at that one time freshmen year, and a time to panic about the number of days until graduation. We somehow became washed up frat bros or SWUGs, and it tastes so much sweeter than freshmen year’s jungle juice.