I’ll probably throw up if I hear about another four-story beer bong. My nausea has nothing to do with my alcohol consumption, it’s just that I’m a bit loath to tell complete strangers about my favorite sex position. And no, I don’t think that snorting coke off of a stripper — just one component of the so-called “man-cathalon” — is “awesome.” Nor have I given that much thought to my ideal threesome (Liz Lemon and Kabuki the Japanese body pillow, done.) Yet, while sitting among a busload of my drunken peers as it whisked us away to exotic A.C., I began to get frat life’s appeal.

Even beyond the veneer of free food and booze, rush is certainly alluring. When else can you hear the word “righteous flow” fifty times in a five-minute conversation? But really, let’s be serious. They say there’s no shortage of brotherly love in this city, but for us fledgling freshmen, fraternity life offers a unique sense of campus camaraderie. On the one hand, frats offer a comfortable sense of togetherness. But on the other, in the process of adopting a new community I find myself losing a spark of individuality, leaving me on the fence about the whole process.

Though it took me a little while, I realized that rush really poses one question: what is the price a frat pays for my subjugation? Is it Ed’s Pizza or Five Guys burgers? Cigars or joints? Bacardi or Yuengling? In the end, I’m not sure if I will pledge. It all depends: is a week of debauchery payment enough for a semester of servitude? I need to think about that.


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