Cool party. Like, what's your major?

The Saturday of Halloween weekend is the prime night to get ridiculously drunk. At my college, this is the night when frat parties are the perfect location to let loose, and abandon those inhibitions--and maybe a few articles of clothing. All are eager to gulp down free jungle juice--a hideous and deadly combination of Everclear and some variation of fruit punch--and cat piss that passes for beer. I wish I could say I was above this American Pie aspect of a college career, but I usually enjoy going to frat parties. They're fun and stupid, and technically free. So, why not?
American University is a dry campus. Thus our frat houses aren't on campus. Thus the way to get to these parties is through a ride system. This means a mass of people wait in a designated area, just hoping to be the apple of some frat bro's eye. Unsurprisingly, girls have an easier time with the transportation. But, with a 60-40 ratio of women to men, there are usually tons of cute girls waiting for a ride, and the brothers in charge of prioritizing pretty much have your night in their hands. So, basically, if you are a female and you'd like to get a ride to a frat party, and you don't happen to have any sort of connection, you're going to have to talk to one of these dudes in order to distinguish yourself from the pack as being desirable enough to get first ride.
There are some girls who are masters at this, my roommate being one of them. It is incredibly impressive to watch. They go up to these guys and just start talking to them, smiling widely and joking with them. Making their mark in the frat hierarchy. Last night was no exception. I watched girl after girl approach the guy who seemed to be in charge--a short Jewish dude wearing a red-velour pimp suit with zebra trimming, who used his pimp cane to point at groups. A guy who I therefore, unfortunately for me, could not take seriously enough to converse with.
But I realized, standing out in that cold parking lot and watching these girls, that I just can't really do it at all. I just cannot bring myself to attempt to befriend someone simply for the purposes of getting a ride to a sweaty party. I can't try to smile and giggle with someone who doesn't seem terribly interesting--a pimp suit? Really?--and who I don't particularly care about. It feels cheap and annoying to me, and I feel fake whenever I try. Also, I'm kind of bad at it. Since I don't see the conversation going beyond, "Can, like, me and my hot friends get a ride," and "Yeah, totally," I'm not too invested in a blossoming friendship. And why should I be?
I want to spend my time talking to people that matter to me. I just don't see the point in talking to douche-bags in pimp suits who would probably rather not be talking to me unless I seem like a promising attendee. And apparently my bright smile and sparkling wit are on permanent mute when I'm standing in a cold-ass parking lot, trying not to roll my eyes. I just don't feel like being charming, so I'm unsurprised when frat boys are less than enthusiastic about my intended arrival. This is clearly my own fault: I understand the system perfectly and I still ignore it.
But I just can't muster up the energy or gusto to extend my half of the conversation beyond, "So, how do you like Greek life?" I guess my secret misanthropy is out to ruin my good, clean, fraternal fun. Oh, well.

NYC

I went to New York, where the people are deliciously vulgar--you motherfuckin' bitch, fuck that, cocksucker can eat shit--and the streets are piled with natives running their routes like trained hamsters,or else tourists biting the apple, and everyone is walking on top of each other, avoiding the dirty bums who look you straight in the eye and know you, and the buildings are tall, but it's really the multimedia screens in Times Square that engulf you with their impossible neonety and moving advertisements screeching at you to buy clothes and watch television, a nightmarish prophecy that only Aldous Huxley could have dreamed up, and there's dirt, dirt, dirt, and New York City doesn't have any alleys, so the trash bags are on the streets and a certain smell takes over, a rich, ripe, real smell, it's sentient, it smells like humans, the waste that we make, the waste that we are, and there are still more people pushing you, God, there must be a million, jillion people on this street, everyone in the whole world is on 43rd street with you and they're all a thrumming, throbbing mass trying to cross the street onto their important lives.

When the sun goes down in New York City, life is different. The dark lets the dirt and smell live peacefully unnoticed, and the tourists with children retire to their overpriced hotel rooms. The energy levels from a boisterous nightmare to a quiet excitement, a slow and steady rhythm. Because it's cool, it's sweet, so sweet to be in a city at night and to feel the dark lift your feet. People laugh more at night, because they're done with work, and it's time to feel good, to feel like you're actually thrumming with this strange pulse instead of fighting against it.

I won't ever live in New York City. But I may go back.