Drinking in Driscoll

Before you enter college, people tell you all sorts of things about what it’s going to be like. I expected my freshman year to include a 15 pound weight gain, a lot of drinking, a lot of boys, and a lot of hard work. I was 100% right, minus the hard work part.
Despite Counseling being a fabulous major choice for someone who eventually wants to go into Social Work, the 100 level courses mainly consist of talking about your feelings and writing “reflections” about how you felt the class went. I once wrote an entire paper on my BlackBerry on the way to New York. I got an A.
Because school work didn’t take up much of my time, I had a lot of free time to nap, drink, and try to avoid eye contact with the boys who lived in my dorm. It was exhausting. I lived in Driscoll Hall, the greatest place I’ve ever threatened to burn to the ground. With 3 floors of boys and 1 of girls, I was surrounded; it was awful. I blame most of the bad things that happened that year on the boys in that dorm. Once, two of them pulled me out of bed wearing footie pajamas (them, not me) and insisted I chug a mixture of vodka and beer. I was drunk by 3pm. Another time, I went downstairs to find one of them crying and spooning with a bottle of Captain Morgan. I was horrified at the scene and even more horrified that I had kissed this boy on more than six occasions (I hated literally everything about him but he lived right downstairs and it was nice to not have to go outside in the cold).
Driscoll Hall (also known at the “Dirty D” for reasons I learned but can’t repeat) was literally built to steal people’s dignity and ruin lives. Naturally, it’s one of my top three favorite places on Earth.
The first time I got cited was really not my fault. The second time wasn’t either. The third time was definitely my fault. The following is a recount only of what’s been told to me, considering I remember none of it.

Having put me to bed an hour earlier, my friends were all shocked to see me upright and trying to figure out why the water fountain wouldn’t flush. When they tried to put me back to bed, I became violent (this is when I decided to break up with vodka for a few months, as I have been known to overreact and sometimes become physical under the influence. Vodka and I have seen gotten back together and things remain cordial). I was screaming and insisting that one of my friends had “called me out.” This was the night that same friend had either eaten a cherry Chapstick/was throwing up blood (debate continues to this day about which it was). Needless to say, she had also been out for the count for quite some time and was in no shape to “call me out” on anything.
I then decided it would be a good idea to go downstairs and INSIST I sleep in one of the boys’ beds (whom I was by no means friends with) who was away for the weekend. His roommate was still there with his girlfriend. Apparently I caused quite a scene.

The next day I went to the caf in the same clothes I had worn and slept in the night before. I literally had no idea any of this happened until everyone filled me in.
When I met with the Area Coordinator to discuss what had happened, she filled out a slip referring me to a Counselor to discuss my “alcohol induced aggression” and not-so-gently suggested that I quit drinking all together and leave the University for the upcoming Parade Day. Sick joke.


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