You’re standing on a slippery wooden bar in jorts and a flannel clutching a handle of warm Dubra. After screaming some Miley lyrics you hop down and make your way into back yard, passing a bathroom without a door and a wall that some dude decided to headbutt. You survey the scene – pong to …

CRU meets Yale.

I quickly realized that the competition was secondary to the general spirit of day drinking and Kosofky Sedgwick-approved homosocial activities.

I’m not mad they put pickles under my bed, I’m just mad that she didn’t fellate two pickles.