Student Beats 2048; Everybody Cares

via forums.toucharcade.com

EVANSTON, IL – The entirety of Core in University Library broke into vivacious applause late last night after Weinberg Sophomore Jeff Hudson completed the viral online game 2048 during a nine-hour study break. According to those within the library, everybody cared, a lot. No really, they emphasized, literally everybody gave a shit that someone moved tiles around on a screen long enough to form a slightly different tile.

Asked for comment, Hudson replied that

If Ernest Hemingway Went Through Sorority Recruitment

I stood in line in front of the house with the others. It was a little too cold outside. On all sides of the quad, there were similar lines to get into similar houses. The houses along the sides of the quad were long and white. The railings were coated with frost and the awnings sagged under the weight of the snow. My RC brought me into the house.

“This is Ernest,” she said, introducing me to a sister.

“Hi Ernest! Welcome to Pi Gamma Tau. It’s nice to meet you.”

Hate A Random Country: Canada

It’s waaay too easy to find a picture of a vagina on the Internet.

It’s widely known that there is only one country in North America that matters.  America[1]. All others are entirely irrelevant.  This scientific fact has been proven time and again, during Olympics, world wars, and presumably obesity contests (we have the most mass, so we matter the most).  However, there are other countries that we are unfortunately stuck sharing a continent with, and sadly, one of them is Canada.

Imagine that you were stuck in a never-ending Northwestern winter.  Now imagine that in the middle of the snow, the only life you could see was a lonely moose jacking off.  Also you routinely got hit in the face with hockey pucks, and your tears froze and turned into little balls of ice before they hit the ground.  Oh, and in the background, Nickelback’s newest album played on an infinite repeat, only occasionally intercut by a song or two from Drake, the rapper who has singlehandedly infected over 39 women with syphilis.  The situation I just described is pretty much what it’s like to live in Canada.

Firstly, Canada is known for hockey.  Their national sport involves various large and drunk eastern European men bashing each other with sticks and fighting for a disc on ice.  Occasionally they pummel each other for no apparent reason.  What the fuck?  Despite Canadian claims of ”originating” the sport of hockey, they actually stole it from Russia, which according to historian “Mittens” Romney, is our #1 enemy.  So not only is Canada responsible for bringing the wretched sport here, it’s also collaborating with our enemies.  It’s like the old saying: “Bring me hockey, shame on you; conspire with Russia, and why the fuck aren’t we invading Toronto already?”

A part of the daily life of a Canadian.

Secondly, their national food is Maple Syrup.  I don’t know about you, but I, like most normal people, don’t like drinking trees.  I don’t swing that way; I don’t like putting liquid that comes from wood in my mouth.  Yet that’s exactly what Canada shoves down the throats of the world.  In Canada, maple syrup is required by law to be 66% sugar (which goes to show what Canada’s government is concerned with regulating useless shit, rather than helping fight Terrorism like REAL countries).  Well thanks a lot for that, Canada.  If I wanted to drink something terrible for me that would burn with sugar as it went down, I would just drink a Smirnoff Ice[2].

Then, there’s the music.  Not only does Canada want us to “call them maybe”, but they have unleashed many terrors on the world.  For one, Justin Bieber, or as I call him, “pussyface.”  Then, Nickelback.  Fucking…Nickelback.  Baby, baby, baby…NO.  Also, Cher.  Anyone with a soul hates Cher.

Yet they get even worse.  Canada is still sucking the metaphorical dick of England.   England is not worth sucking up to (although Pippa Middleton definitely is[3]).  They still have the queen on their (bizarrely multicolored) money!  They could at least grow some balls and put Canadian flags on it, but no.  Random-ass British people.  Yet while Canada remains England’s little bitch, they are also French, which inherently makes them pussies.  This fine line that they walk between kissing the ass of the English and being a pussy like the French makes them even more insufferable.

In short, there’s nothing more despicable than Canada.  From the fact that they originated Nickelback, to their creation of hockey and maple syrup, to their creation of Nickelback[4] they truly are the shittiest and most pathetic excuse for a country on this entire planet.  After all, as their national anthem says… “Oh Canada…goddamn it, why do I live in you?  Fuck my life.”

– Horatio Fourgasm

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[1] Techincally “the United States of America,” but since all other countries are irrelevant, America will here be used EXCLUSIVELY to refer to the U.S of motherfuckin’ A.

[2] Maple Syrup is one of the few things on earth that is even less healthy than Smirnoff Ice.

[3] Side note: Pippa, if you’re reading this…I love you.  Please respond to my letters/e-mails/flyers I’ve tried to distribute around the UK.

[4] A crime so terrible I listed it twice.

How to react to your first episode of Gossip Girl

Hands down the hottest 20-something to play a high schooler in years.

It all started with Monte Carlo[1].

Well, that’s inaccurate, it all started with an accelerated math course in elementary school but to follow the threads back that long would just be boring[2] so we’re going with the abbreviated version and it all started with Monte Carlo.

I used to watch a new movie every day which is relatively easy to do between Netflix and OnDemand and, you know, the internet. One of the last movies in this multi-year habit was Monte Carlo, starring Selena Gomez, Leighton Meester and a blonde woman who seemed very replaceable the entire time. The movie is an intense look into the differences between people as stipulated by classes and also there is a scene where they play polo and also Selena Gomez meets up with her true love while casually working at a Romanian charter school. Also Cory Monteith is in the movie and he doesn’t sing[3] so that’s a plus I guess.

Regardless, I watched the entire movie trying to figure out where I had seen Leighton Meester before. My first guess was Episodes, best known as the show that earned Matt LeBlanc a Golden Globe for playing Matt LeBlanc. However, a quick trip down Wikipedia lane proved that incorrect[4]. I also that it might be Elizabeth Moss but it turns out that Leighton Meester and Elizabeth Moss are two seperate people and only one of them has kissed pre-skinny Jonah Hill.

Then I forgot about it.

Just kidding, then I watched Monte Carlo again because it was on HBO before Real Sex[5] and I like having very confused junk. The second time around I discovered that the film was a clever commentary on a gendered society done through a gender-inverted version of the classic parable, the prince and the pauper and also the replaceable blonde woman is a waitress right in that douchey French guys face and also they could have made a very shocking sequel in which Riley, the carefree Australian goes all Wolf Creek[6] on Leighton Meester.

After this viewing I forgot about it entirely.

Several months later I was at a neighborhood joint I frequent often[7] when Gossip Girl came on. My only knowledge of Leighton Meester up until this point was as the wounded Meg Kelly. A woman driven by academic ambition who learns to accept levity into her life, by way of a very attractive Australian.

In Gossip Girl she plays Blair Waldorf, who is a huge bitch.

Blair is manipulative and just a meanie-pants in general. In specific, in the three episodes of Gossip Girl I saw she blackmailed two people and was really mean to another one and then kissed all the boys and I believe I’ve discovered the perfect analogy to what watching Gossip Girl was like.

Watching Gossip Girl was like the first time I went to visit my brother[8] in college and we got into a huge street fight with some other guys and then went downtown to a suite and sat around in the hallway passing around bottles of André and then me and this other guy got hungry so we went downstairs and ate Popeye’s. Gossip Girl is that chicken. I enjoyed the show a lot at the time, but later when I try to access it again it has turned into shit via entirely normal physical processes.

I have fond memories of watching Gossip Girl, but I’m not sure if that’s because I liked the show or because I was watching it with good company and I was in a great mood. That said, watching the show reminded me of something once said by noted cultural critic and current expatriate John Edwin Foster regarding the inevitable proletariat revolution.

J.E. and I were watching It’s Complicated[9], a movie where there are literally zero considerations for things like money and whatnot, and J.E. told me that when the proletariat revolts it will be because of It’s Complicated. They will rise up banners of fire and counter-oppression and as we look down from the diamond balcony we will have very little soul in our argument and they will justly rend us limb from limb.

Gossip Girl works in substititution for It’s Complicated[10].

The entire show could be summed up as #firstworldproblems. In the episode I watched, a character was removed from all his money, a problem he solved not through any great effort. He just fucked a cougar. Then he got called out on it and the explanation “I fucked a cougar because I needed the guapamole” was perfectly sufficent.

Similarly, someone’s mom was running a fashion show and the cool kids had to show up in order to make sure it was covered by the press. The cool kids did show up but the models didn’t so they had to be the models!

At this point, someone reading this should have bridled as the unfairly one-sided portrayal of Gossip Girl by someone who has admittedly seen a very small amount of the show. “What gives him the right,” you may be asking, “to decry such a show? It’s not like they’re trying to make a really deep show or anything.”

Touche.

Some people don’t know this about me[11], but I’ve seen every episode of Sex and the City and both movies. While the second movie is not really worth mentioning[12], I love the show. My mother suggested the reason why she likes Sex and the City and not shows like Desperate Housewives or Cougartown is because the show, on a very elementary level, is about friendship. That’s what seemed to be missing while I watched Gossip Girl. Blair and Serena have moments of comradery but their relationship is built on mutual antagonism.

The men in Sex and the City are mostly[13] one-dimensional coitus puppets. But the show uses them as plot devices to advance the women. If Berger hadn’t broken up with Carrie via post-it-note then we would have never realized how he, an intellectual foil to her, represented all her insecurities in a relationship and her constant desire to find easy happiness over lasting contentment.

When Chuck hits Blair it’s shocking, but it’s shocking in a way that American Psycho[14] is shocking. There’s no emotional fear, just a physical revulsion to the act. Patrick Bateman was created as a satire of east-coast elite, and so his violence is somewhat representative of the arrogance and incosiderateness of an entire class. When Chuck hits Blair it becomes apparent that you are watching either very deeply layered cultural criticism or a soap opera.

This begs a further question: what is wrong with a soap opera?

There is a prevailing theory that stating a genre informs the experience of the viewer on a fundamental level[15]. If you watch Gossip Girl through the lens that the production value would suggest, then ultimately you will be disappointed. The show is not as glitzy as the location scouting would suggest, it is base, and that is not an insult though it may sound like one. It is less than it claims to be, sure, but if we learned anything from the Nolan Batman trilogy[16] it was it’s not what you say, but what you do that makes you who you are. Despite Gossip Girl‘s vehement claims to the contrary, it is just a tabloid you peruse while waiting to check out at the grocery store. You might enjoy it, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but you should stay conscious of its deliberate sensationalism which fundamentally undermines any sensationalist aspirations it may have.

A final note:

Metafilmic influence is a crazy thing.

Remember Monte Carlo[17]? That was where I saw Leighton Meester for this first time. Usuaully, when an actor has a definitive role[18] it informs how the audience views them in subsequent roles (or previous roles viewed subsequently). This can also be true for the first role you see an actor in.

Imagine watching Gossip Girl through the lens formed by Monte Carlo. Blair Waldorf becomes an act to appear tough, a protection against something. But what?

Does Riley leave Meg after Monte Carlo ends? Is Blair just a girl who opened up her heart, only to have it Temple of Doom‘d, forcing her to act as heartless as possible to avoid being hurt again? Maybe all of her politicking is intentionally self-destructive, as she has seen how the only thing she needed for happiness was an oft-shirtless Australian.

Do you think that Blair ever finds herself sitting by a window in winter? She looks out onto the snow and sees not a blanket but a smothering force. She remembers the beach in Morocco where he told her that the key was not to worry and so she doesn’t. She laments. She ponders the consistency of words when their speaker has been proven to be so inconsistent. She might run a finger over her lips, but only if she is sure no one is watching.

Her phone vibrates. Serena wants to get drunk because she can taste Conneticut in her mouth and she wants to drown it out anyway possible.

When they are having sex with their boyfriends, they’ll think of each other.

It will not be a sexual thought. It will be the absolute misery that comes from realizing that in all of existence there is only one other person who understands your position, and that’s because she is also on her back, legs up in the air and over-priced liquor in her stomach too.

Later that night Blair will turn her head to the side as if to vomit, but nothing will come up. Her stomach has become too fortified against all the poison she ingests.[19]

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[1]   I was trying to come up with the name Monte Carlo once and said Montenegro. Very different films, I recommend neither.

[2]   A lot of the time in grades 6-8 would be spent at Yu-Gi-Oh tournaments, a notoriously difficult game to report on.

[3]   I feel very bad for a lot of the actors in Glee because how can any other work be fulfilling after that?

[4]   In my more vain moments I like to imagine that there is a conspiratorial council dictating rapid-fire changes to Wikipedia just to foil the discovery of pleasant coincidinces in my life. Also I was banned from editing Wikipedia so I’m still a little sore about the whole thing.

[5]   There’s a really good drinking game where you drink and watch Real Sex and wonder what went wrong to lead you to this point.

[6]   This is a movie I recommend. If more people see it, then they’ll get what I mean when I drunkenly threaten to Wolf Creek their ass.

[7]   It’s called the Kitten Shack and three Zeta’s live there because only the best can wear the crown.

[8]   http://www.youtube.com/user/kamroyal1

[9]   I liked It’s Complicated but then I really like Roxanne so maybe I’m just a Steve Martin fan

[10] So does Catcher in the Rye, sorry.

[11] All of you who don’t know me shouldn’t know this, but some people who do know me also don’t know this.

[12] Think Godfather III

[13] Except Aidan. Carrie and Aidan forever.

[14] I only own three DVD’s: American Psycho, Silence of the Lambs, and Remember the Titans.

[15] This is why Rian Johnson never told the cast of Brick that they were making a noire film. Genre conventions, etc.

[16] Those movies are worth watching a few times, which is independent of how good/enjoyable they are.

[17] You didn’t think I was never going to come back to it?

[18] So for John Lithgow, clearly it’s The World According to Garp

[19] The necessary accusation is that in order to write fan-fiction one must, on some level, be a fan.

Muhammad: Everyone please calm down

Who brought the marshmallows?

MEDINA — In a press release this morning, the prophet Muhammad called on Muslims, Christians, Jews, and all others alike to “seriously calm the fuck down.”

“Guys, seriously? I mean, I’m really flattered that you think I’m important enough that a building has to be bombed every time I’m depicted, but honestly, we need to all take a chill pill. I preach peace, love, and acceptance — how did you guys turn that into ‘blow shit up when angry?'”

Why Language Teachers are the Same as Stalkers

Why exactly do you need to know about all the body parts in a foreign language?

Does that sound crazy to you? Maybe, after I give you the low-down, you’ll be one step closer to realizing that Madame BumbleBrioche could possibly be looking into your windows at night. Don’t underestimate the power of the foreign language textbook. It acts so innocently until it jumps out of the bushes and asks you a multitude of questions. After a brief epiphany with a gorgeous gal named Katherine in class today, I’ve realized the truth. I’ve studied 6 languages in my life, and 4 of them perfectly apply to my theory that language teachers are identical to stalkers. (Latin is unfortunately a “dead” language, and the Thai I studied was merely survival vocabulary to get around the city and village and prostitutes).

Think about the questions these language textbooks ask you. I’m going to pull out a selection from my French textbook for you to evaluate:

What’s your name?
How old are you?
Where are you from?
Do you live in a dormitory or in a house?
What do you do?
What do you like to do?
What is your phone number?
When do you eat?
When do you study?
When do you go to sleep?
What do you want to do?
Who do you know?
Who are your parents?
Who’s in your family?
Who are your friends?
What did you do last weekend?
What is the weather like where you are?
What does your family do?
Were you alone last night?
Did you go out with friends last night?
Do you have a petit(e) ami(e)? (Boyfriend/Girlfriend)
What classes are you taking?
What is your schedule?
What do you do on the weekends?
Are you going out of town?
What are you doing this summer?
Do you like to travel?
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO AFTER CLASS THAT WILL GET YOU INTO MY WHITE VAN WITH CANDY AND NO WINDOWS?

How do you say "I have candy and a gamecube in my van" in French?

Maybe not the last one so much, but I digress. So next time you open up your language textbook, question yourself and question your teacher. Are they looking for this information for a particular reason? Who knows who’s actually grading your tests. Oh yeah, it definitely helps your number skills to recite your phone number a couple of times. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.

ALL I SEE ARE PEDOBEARS IN MY TEXTBOOK.

Happy learning languages!

Welcome to the Culinary Dorm Corner

Welcome to the Culinary Dorm Corner, otherwise known as the place to which people will inevitably flock when they hear you have something free to eat.

Labor went into that. It’s not free.

Don't forget to butter up.

But you say you can’t cook? HAVE NO FEAR! The honorable Professor J. Reginald Vandernips is here to help. Be it a romantic time outside of the low-cost date-worthy-atmosphere of the Willard dining hall, or just a quick munchie between orgo and bio (Bless your heart), I’ve got you covered.

So let’s start with something low-key, easy as fuck, and FREE.

Let’s talk about the parfait. There’s a reason that the word “parfait” is French for “perfect.” We’ve got fruit, yogurt, granola, a possibility of ice cream… The cooking gods would be proud. So now you’ve got two options to work with: Healthy (fuck that, you’re in college) or Tasty.

We know what I’ll choose, so find a dining hall with a salad bar, soft serve machine, and a cereal station. Luckily for you, that’s everywhere! Just snag yourself a cup and head over to the yogurt or the soft serve. If you’re going to the ice cream, you’ll want to get vanilla, unless you’re one of those people that put chocolate on everything you can think of.

Basically you’re going to layer ice cream and/or yogurt with fruit from the salad bar (where the yogurt usually is also) and possibly the strawberry syrup from the ice cream section until you get to just under the top. Then head over to the cereal. You may not have your conventional Grape Nuts or granola (or Meusli, if you’re a pretentious fuck) so you can make do with barely crushed Cheerios (they’re an oat cereal anyway) or Captain Crunch.

What the fuck did you say about my cooking?

Chances are that you won’t be able to taste the cereal anyway. It’s just for the crunch.

Alternatively, when it comes to quick dining hall cup desserts you can go for the classic Coke/ Root Beer float. Load that shit up, grab a spoon, get to your table and make everyone jealous for your ingenuity.

Happy Eating!

Things That Suck: Coffee

Coffee: Sir Twattingworth's anti-heroin

Fuck coffee.

I feel like a stranger in a strange land. Not because I’m the protagonist of a Robert Heinlein novel, but because I don’t drink caffeine. I’ll pause a moment to let your mouths fall agape as you shout “WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT.”

True story. I’ve never drunk coffee in my life. Okay, wait, there was that one time when I was a curious young four-year-old and my dad let me taste his coffee and I was so horrified that I jerked violently and spilled it all over my Charlie Brown pajama pants. But other than that I have usually abstained from the black stuff. And from Red Bull. And Monster, too. Fuck that shit.

Final exams may be over at Northwestern, but I know there are a bunch of other poor unfortunate souls out there who still have to cram months’ worth of learning into their skulls before exams. As a result they may, in all their mortal vulnerability, be tempted to turn to the evil that is caffeinated beverages. I am here to hold up my hand and say the same thing I would say to anyone planning to read Roberto Bolaño’s novel 2666: Don’t do it!

My body is like this temple, in that it is a temple.

That’s a picture of a temple. I included it in this article because, like the Baha’i Temple, my body is a temple. When I stay up till four in the morning writing a six page essay about what Henry David Thoreau would think about the Weather Underground, I do so simply on the sober strength of my own fucking willpower. I understand that if you start thinking about this metaphor, some obvious contradictions might jump out at you like the T-Rex face in my old dinosaur pop-up book. But I’ll remind you that most temples have alcohol in them. You can put wine into a temple without damaging it, and Christians have done so for ages. But something tells me that if you shot lightning at a temple to “give it energy,” you would really just blow up the temple. That’s my visualization of inserting caffeine into a human system.

Shoot a temple with lightning and it will never be intact again. Give me Red Bull and I will never sleep again. I have enough trouble as it is. The first time I stayed up past midnight on a day that wasn’t New Year’s Eve, it was all over for me. Once I crossed that threshold, it became impossible for me to ever fall asleep before midnight again. At night my productivity goes up, and I suddenly remember all the Grantland articles I wanted to read and all the episodes of Dragon Ball Z that I wanted to watch that I somehow forgot about during the daytime. Before I know it, it’s 2:30 and somehow the knowledge that I have to telemarket for three hours the next day doesn’t stop me from looking up YouTube clips of old Martin Luther King, Jr. speeches until my eyelids finally take executive action and shut themselves, only to be jarred awake hours later by an alarm just in time to swallow a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs before huffing it to my French class with all possible speed. No rest for the weary, and I am nothing if not weary.

I am not alone here. I have friends who drink coffee like it’s water. As a result, they go to bed at midnight and wake up at six every day. They think they’re fully functioning modern human beings. I think they’re more like zombie robots in danger of falling apart at any second. I don’t want to see that happen, so I’m finally coming out against the horrid black stuff.

She is hot. Coffee is awful.

That’s a subjective take on the general suckiness of caffeinated drinks, so I’ll throw in an objective approach as well. I feel like I shouldn’t have to mention this, since it is as inherently obvious as the blueness of the sky or the hotness of Kate Middleton, but caffeine is gross. Coffee is gross, and everybody secretly knows it. I’m not just talking about the people who pour mounds of sugar into their mugs to deaden their sorry souls to the fact that they’re drinking liquid poop. I’m talking about everyone. We all seem to have agreed to forget that coffee is disgusting, the way we all agreed to forget that George W. Bush was appointed President by the Supreme Court.

And not just coffee. Red Bull is gross too. I admit, I’ve tasted it a few times, and I’d sooner hang out with Michele Bachmann for a few hours than repeat the experience. But even if I hadn’t been capable of offering this personal testimony of awfulness, surely the list of ingredients – which looks like something Walter White might cook up in his basement to pay for chemotherapy – would probably be convincing enough. 4Loko actually tastes kind of good, but it’s illegal, so that’s a given. I won’t even talk about 5 hour energy drinks until they make better commercials. If my RTVF roommate could make a better commercial than the one you put on TV, you probably don’t deserve to exist, let alone be talked about in the valuable Internet real estate that is this website.

Would you rather drink coffee or eat poop?

I realize that this anti-caffeine argument is difficult. Sometimes the AP curriculum makes it seem as if the College Board just assumes that every AP student is injecting caffeine into their eyeballs (Either that or no one told them about the existence of time-consuming extracurriculars, but either way they’re a bunch of douchemuffins who gave me too much homework in high school). Then there’s the necessity of being a hipster in order to have any social currency in this hyper media-literate world. That means you need to read Pitchfork regularly and wear clothes originally designed for girls Europeans, but it mainly means that you need to spend a majority of your time in darkly lit indie cafes sipping black energy so you’re wide awake and prepared to unleash a shitstorm of ironic Tweets the next time Bon Iver releases a workout video. Caffeine has been so prevalent in our society for so long that we just accept it as a given fact of life. But the fact that people in the Eighties were accustomed to the idea of nuclear Armageddon didn’t make it okay. Nuclear holocaust is never okay, and neither is coffee, and don’t let Henry Kissinger tell you any different.

Society seems to have ordered its priorities like this:
1. Work
2. Sleep

But that is so, so wrong. Our society has forgotten the value of sleep. Let me tell you, there was one Saturday earlier this quarter when I slept until 3 pm. It was the greatest day of my life. We all need sleep to recuperate from the horrid heinousness of everyday life, and coffee prevents that. It sucks. Finals suck. Life sucks too. But you just need to get over it. Do it all natural or not at all, that’s my motto. Sleep well, my friends.

(And for those of you wondering about the fate of my aforementioned Charlie Brown pajama pants: They did not survive their encounter with coffee, and were promptly retired to the dustbin of history. The world is a worse place for it).

7 Things You Miss About Being at Northwestern

Right now you’re probably sitting at home and staring at Facebook. You’re probably praying to the Almighty Tim Tebow that your life becomes more exciting. You miss Northwestern and you know it. Here are some of the likely reasons why you’re missing NU.

You don't understand. It's hot cookie bar.

7. The Cold
Now I’m going to be honest here: I don’t like cold weather. I’m not a fan of my boys retreating back into my body like the French during, well, any war ever. However, now that I’m away from the freezing helltrap known as Northwestern, I realize I do miss the cold. “Why?” You may ask. Well, to answer your question, Mr. Theoretical Man Who Talks to his Computer, the frozen domain known as Evanston provides us with two things: 1. The appearance of social skills; and 2. The chance to whine incessantly. Because nobody likes the cold, the vast majority of your conversations at Northwestern may be about how fucking cold it is – and though it would be unacceptable anywhere else to spend so much time talking about the weather, it’s okay here. Also, the biting cold lets you complain and swear as much as you want. Hell, if you wanted, you could walk outside and scream “Fucking Shit Bitch Damnit!” and have a simple “man it’s cold out” excuse to forgive your horrible language.

6. The Dorm Food
We’ve all got a secret fat person hiding inside of us (mine’s Israel Kamakawiwo’ole). When you’re home in front of your family, you must hide this fat person for fear of terrifying your parents and siblings; however, in the dining halls of Northwestern, you can let that fat person run wild. With chicken tenders every day, grilled cheese always on the menu, and ice cream galore, you can indulge your disgusting gluttonous desires each and every day at Northwestern (not to be confused with your other awful desires).

5. The Classes
You’re at Northwestern – embrace your inner geek. You love that you’re struggling to get a C in Orgo. You want to discuss Nietzsche every day. And each time you go to Russian Lit, Morson gives you a mini orgasm. You’re at Northwestern for a reason, and that reason likely isn’t your amazing rapping prowess…we can’t all be Chet Haze.

4. Gratuitous Hook-Ups
You’re disgusting. I mean, you are a sick group of horny little nerds. But that’s okay – it’s part of why we love you. However, since you’re no longer at Northwestern, your game probably isn’t doing quite as well as normal. Saying “I wish I was DNA Helicase, that way I could unzip your jeans” just probably isn’t flying with that General Studies major from the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater the way it worked with that “cute” girl from your bioethics class. I know you’re trying to convince yourself that your “self-help” is just as good as any vodka-induced adventures you’ve had at NU, but you know it’s just not the same.

You don't even want to see the stock-image for "self-gratification"

3. Fucksaw and Self-Gratification Jokes
Do you want to know how many times I’ve wanted to make a comment about fucksaws and masturbating in the showers in the three days I’ve been home? A LOT. Do you know how many times I haven’t been able to? TOO FUCKING MANY. And do you know how often I’ve accidentally mentioned self-gratification in front of MY MOTHER? Once….AND THAT’S ONE TIME TOO MANY. Without being able to talk about fucksaws, waxing the dolphin, or the cold weather – I HAVE NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT ANYMORE. Since coming home, I feel like I may have to learn how to converse like a normal human being again, and I’m not ready to do that – and you probably aren’t either.

2. The Diversity of Thought
Unless you’re Rick Perry (in which case, please kindly go die in the most painful way possible), you’re probably a fan of tolerance and diversity. Northwestern provides more diversity of thought and belief than any place within 500 miles of my hometown. Though you may be fortunate enough to live in a place with rational people, the only thing my state has chosen to move forward on is reviving Pre-Civil War era policies. I appreciate Northwestern so much for how accepting it is of all people, and it’s something that you should miss and cherish as well.

1. Your Friends
I’m sure you have a ton of great friends back home. I’m grateful every day for the fantastic people I know in my hometown. But that being said, I still miss the hell out of everyone at Northwestern. Only at Northwestern will you have friends that are stumbling outside the Keg one day and then intensely developing a Chemical Engineering program the next. Your friends at NU are always there to help you stand up, and they’re certainly there when you’re falling down (you alcoholic, you). These are some of the best, most ridiculous people you will ever meet – and you’re probably suffering a little every moment you’re away from them.

There are so many reasons why you think you hate Northwestern, but you know you love and miss it there. So tough it out NU. You can make it. Soon enough you’ll be back at school just in time to freeze and die with the best student body on the planet.

Where to Find Your NU Love

With any luck, one day you'll make a heinous rock all of your own.

If you’re like me, a socially awkward alcoholic, you haven’t found your NU love yet. This is probably because the venues you most often frequent have three Greek letters in their names and smell vaguely like Four Loko and urine. Haven’t found any keepers while projectile vomming in the Beta Kappa handicap stall? Keep looking, young freshmen. Take my hand on the magical road of dating: from the painful first encounters and sloppy make outs to the time your suitor hangs your bra on your locker after you left it in his car. Oh wait, this isn’t high school anymore.

It’s time to look for some more obscure places to find your future lover and/or tonsil-hockey teammate. Here’s where to start.

1. A Swanky Restaurant
I suggest Bistro Bordeaux on Church St. Nothing can ever go wrong with a good French meal. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bristol, I need to find a future lover before I can go to a swanky restaurant. Wrong! Go alone, but inform your waiter that someone else is joining you. Wear a red rose. Pray to God that someone mistakes you for their exponentially-cuter-than-you-looked-online blind date. If no one shows up, cry to your waiter about being stood up. Pray to God the waiter feels sympathetic/gives you their number/accompanies you back to your sex lair for the night.

Too forward for you? Work your way in slowly then. (That’s what she said.)

Yes, I'd like an overnight package please.

2. The Post Office
Guaranteed to generate the best pickup lines:
“Wanna be my priority male?” (Punny, right?)
“I’m here to pick up my package.” [Cast eyes down to genitalia]. (Classic.)
“If you liked it then you should’ve put a stamp on it.” (Because Beyoncé is a goddess.)

3. Dark Parking Garages
Ever feel uncomfortable introducing yourself to a girl in a bar? Wait until she’s walking back alone to her car! Explain that you saw her walking in a dark parking garage that may or may not be chock full of rapists or flesh-eating Republicans and decided to walk with her to protect her from said travesties. At first, she’ll probably pepper spray you, SING at you (solar plexus, instep, nose, groin),* or force you to watch a video of Michelle Bachmann eating a corn dog. But as soon as she realizes you’re just a creepy motherfucker with good intentions, she might just give you the seven-digit password to her pants.

Trolling for some bitches

4. Dog Shows
It works, believe me. It’s like a Cincinnati Cyclones game on $1 beer Wednesday nights, but with wine and trust-fund dog owners on Sundays at high tea.

Perhaps just as important as the places you should go, are the places you should NOT go.

1. University Place or Ridge Avenue
Unless you want to fall in love with a punk in a hoodie who steals your smartphone.

2. The Showers at SPAC
Unless you’re into watching/performing/assisting in self-gratification. Then balls-to-the-walls, young harlots!

3. The Sauna at SPAC
You are not into naked old Jewish women who look like sweaty beached whales. So don’t go in the sauna for love. In fact, don’t go into the sauna at all.

4. Find your NU love/ Flirting for Nerds
I attended both the speed dating event “Find your NU Love” and the seminar “Flirting for Nerds,” more out of irony than desperation. I did not find my NU love, nor did I learn how to flirt anymore heinously than I already do. So unless you want to wince every few minutes when the girl knitting a pair of Eskimo slippers snorts loudly, avoid NU dating events.

You know where to go. Now go and get ‘em, you sexually frustrated bastards.

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*Miss Congeniality