Kollege Kid Kard

I think they should hand out passes at the beginning of your freshman year that are similar to those punch cards at Dunkin Donuts granting you a free coffee after your tenth visit. Every time you do something quintessentially “Colleeeeeege,” you get a space punched out, and instead of freebies at the end, you get a diploma. There are certain aspects of college that everyone – no matter who you are or where you go – simply must partake in to get the full experience.

• Making your RA’s life a living hell by wreaking sexual-innuendo-laden havoc on the bulletin board she spent way too much energy decorating? *Punch!*
• Showing up still wasted to class on Friday morning only to participate more than you ever have all semester and probably ever will again? *Punch!*
• Getting into a huge fight with the kid you were sorta kinda dating and texting him at 3am that same night to “see what he’s up to”? *Triple Punch!*

I’ve crammed a lot of calamity into my college experience, but there are some things that I will never receive punches for. And I’m strangely cool with that, because I’d rather save my funtimes up for occasions that don’t put me in hilarious danger or make me look like a complete asshole (at least not intentionally).

Here are the ways in which I lose my Kollege Kid Kard:

Not liking Dave Matthews Band: Getting this fact out in the open puts me in great danger of getting shanked by just about everyone I hang out with, but they can suck it, because the man sounds like he’s had the hangy ball in the back of his throat shot with more than the recommended dose of Novocain, and I can’t stand it. “But Skylar, he’s a great song writer!” “But Skylar, they’re such influential philanthropists!” “But Skylar, how could you not love Under the Table and Dreaming?!” I SAID SUCK IT. I’ll take it a step further: A lot of their stuff sounds the same to me; I get “Crash Into Me” and “Where are You Going” confused all the time. There is a certain thing called variety, and Dave ain’t got it in my book. If nothing else, I should probably feel some sense of camaraderie towards the guys based on the fact that they’re from Charlottesville, VA, which is very close to my hometown, but I can’t/won’t even give them that, because Charlottesville is boring as shit. So go off and follow them around like the Deadheads of the 21^st century; Incubus is better anyway.

Never having bonged a beer: I am 5’0” (5’1” on a good day), and although the speed with which I can scarf down a Bruschetta Chicken Burger from Red Robin might suggest my stomach capacity is similar to that of Joey Chestnut’s, physically and logically it just cannot be so. Therefore, I am understandably not comfortable with the idea of that much beer entering my body that fast, and me not either puking or burping in a very manly fashion. Anatomy aside, I have a few personal qualms with the whole “beer bong” practice. For starters, I’m not a chugger. Relaxing my throat sends beer straight down my trachea. I have no egotistical need to be a hero, and I don’t try to be. Secondly, I have a one-track mind that is excellent for quick delivery of That’s What She Saids, but not so great when anything tubular is in or around someone’s mouth. A lot of the time, beer bongs are taken on the knees, and that opens up a whole new world of naughty jokes altogether. Finally, pouring a beer that fast results in an absurd amount of foam, and that’s not only hard to swallow but also a huge waste of my time. I’m just fine casually sipping my classy whiskey and Coke and observing the other party time favorite in which I will never participate: keg stands.

No stories involving homeless men: Honestly, I’m kind of crossing my fingers for this one to still happen, but only if the experience turns out as awesome as some of my friends’ have. For instance, one of my good friends met her hobo pal while cutting through a field on her way home one night. His name was Gravel, and they met on the train tracks. Although the story had all the makings of a Dateline Exclusive, Gravel was very kind and directed her and her friend through the field so they could get back to campus. He may have been missing about 97% of his teeth, but she’ll be damned if he wasn’t helpful. Something similar happened to another one of my friends as she and a couple of other girls were walking home from a bar. Unfortunately, their hobo friend wasn’t nearly as helpful or sweet, didn’t have a cool name, and I’m pretty sure they had trash thrown at them. Still, a story’s a story, and I’m always looking for something new to add to my arsenal of ridiculousness, so if I have to put my personal safety in jeopardy and risk getting taken away to someone’s underground vagrant lair in a storm drain, I’m all about it.

Never attended a PCB Spring Break: I know, right?! How could I possibly have made it to this point in my life without a visit to the Mecca of drunken tomfoolery? Actually, that’s probably exactly how I’ve made it to this point in my life. A trip to Panama City, Fla. leaves you susceptible to any or all of the following things: dehydration, amnesia, Chlamydia, crippling regret, babies. I don’t need any of those things in my life. That is not to say I’m entirely opposed to the idea, though. There are certain aspects of a PCB Spring Break that I would definitely be a fan of, such as meeting D-list reality TV stars, participating in booty shaking contests, and working hard in the gym for three months prior to the trip only to have picture upon picture taken of myself sporting an embarrassing beer belly. How have I deprived myself for so long?  

Not owning Vera Bradley merchandise: I love colorful things. I love printed things. Colorful printed random things that are attention grabbing and girly and wonderful. That being said, I cannot stand Vera Bradley. At first I thought it was just the popularity that got to me. Everywhere I looked, there were hundreds of girls with the backpacks holding the matching laptop case with a matching ID case on their matching lanyard, and suddenly I was so overwhelmed by “Safari Sunset” and “Pinwheel Pink” that I almost threw up quilted paisley florals all over myself. On second thought, it might be the names of the patterns themselves that riled me up. It can go anywhere from just plain “Olive” all the way up to “Floral Nightingale,” and quite frankly that’s a lot of creative license for someone to take. “Twirly Birds” in pink OR navy? Can you even do that? The fact that there are so many options and it seems as though people only own stuff in “Rhythm and Blues,” “Happy Snails,” or “Make me Blush” is just ridiculous. Finally, Vera has taken it way too far in the sheer variety of products she sells. Duffels, garment bags, makeup cases; all good and well. But then we get into the curling iron covers, the placemats, the coolers, and the photo albums, and I feel like she’s being a little greedy. Cornering the market and knowing your audience shows excellent business savvy, but who in their right mind would pay $22 for a stationary set? I’ll stick to something a little less Java Blue, thank you.