My vagina.

My vagina.

My vagina.

Now that that’s out of the way, I went to Phi Kappa Tau this past Friday and experienced the most true and embryonic form of Dionysian mirth.

If you poke a hole into an egg’s yellow yolk, yellow yolk from within doth floweth. Upon entering the PKT house, the air weighed upon my fragile bones like how the delicate corpse of a bird caves under the weight of the simple garden worm.

I can’t make any jokes about this party because it emanated such an ancient malicious joy, but also I feel like it’s the girl in your British Literature class who’s like, “God is a woman :)” and you’re like, “Yeah, okay!”

I am an English major. Mon vagin.

The attendance has to get a five because, although there were many people present, my phone developed a tantalizingly thick layer of condensation due to the amount of heat pulsating in the basement. Also, there was a moment when there were nine people grinding to the song “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore. I counted. Minha vagina.

There was a leaking pipe that dropped onto my little shoulder and I don’t know what the liquid was. There were a lot of sharp smells but there was not a cheese in sight. There was a girl eating popcorn from a big bag and then she dropped it on the ground, picked it up, and started eating from it again as if everything was fine. I thought a baby grasped my knee but when I looked down, all I saw was a lone beach ball, bedraggled and dirt-stained, rolling to the corner.

They played a song by the rapper 6ix9ine who literally assaulted a 13-year-old girl. There were two first year boys who had to hunch their backs upon entering the basement because they were 6’6.

This party was just the movie “The Bridge to Terabithia” without child death and with twice as many girls receiving a mixture of Hershey’s chocolate syrup and vodka being swashed in their fucking mouth holes. Because two girls did that. Moja pochwa.

My friend asked a pointed question, longing, wishing, hoping for an answer: “Who is this for?” The concept gets a zero because it was unclear, but I think it was something like “Vague Beach Alcohol Sweat Party.” Atmosphere is a zero because the atmosphere was so similar to primordial soup that I definitely was a Creationist before experiencing it. Overall score rounds to a two out of 10. I wish watermelons didn’t have seeds.

Tagged: frat review

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