In a recent article in the Chicago-Sun Times, reporters Andrew Herrmann and Lori Rackl depicted University students on a “typical” night out on the town. As I thumbed through the paper in my smoking jacket and slippers, I almost choked on a piece of bacon as a genius idea popped into my brunette locks. Eureka! Instead of sending out thirty something’s to creep around the bars like Jane Goodalls with notepads, why not allow an actual student to narrate the events of a typical night? Since I allegedly go to school here and occasionally mouse around the social scene of the U-C, I decided I was the girl for the job. Let the adventure begin, kids.

April 2, 2005. Saturday morning.

10:30 a.m. I peep through my eyelids to allow in a minimal amount of light. I feel cramped and folded up – like an old pair of Dockers. As usual, I have ended up in the crack between the wall and the bed. Before I move, I remember that it is Saturday morning. Ah, holy day. Moving can wait.

12 p.m. Groan. Feel slightly dizzy from the previous night’s festivities. Do not appreciate the tap-tap-tapping from the psycho wearing high heels on the floor above. Take it somewhere else, Patrick Swayze. This opinions columnist needs her rest.

12:30 p.m. Phone call from partner-in-crime, Nicole, about the game. Arrange to go to White Horse later. Since I currently smell like the inside of a pirate ship after a night spent at Brothers, will have to go home and shower first.

2 p.m. Someone, who shall remain nameless, starts watching Tombstone and eating an egg sandwich. To top it all off, this certain someone quotes the movie like an excited four-year-old, often hitting me in the arm to go “This is a good part! Yeah, this part!”. It might be time for this little birdie to fly on home.

2:45 p.m. Begin to make what the Chicago Sun-Times referred to as a “walk of shame.” Of course, for men it was called a “stride of pride.” Psh. I’m walking with my head tall.

3:00 p.m. Begin to consider the fact that it is hard to “stride with pride” in heels that have seen better days on rough concrete.

5:30 p.m. Came home and showered and then went to White Horse. Sat there for an hour before I remembered that I don’t care about basketball. Decide to go back to my roost for a nap.

8:30 p.m. Liz, Laura and Nicole come over, bearing a blender and some mix. Daiquiris and deviled eggs commence for an hour or so. Laura tells us about the time she puked on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

9:45 p.m. Pass by Phi Psi. Someone put a cinder block in an empty Bud box and a poor drunk girl almost impales herself on it. Okay, it was a little funny.

11 p.m. Lines everywhere, so we stop by a friend’s for some beer.

12 a.m. So much for just stopping in. Have been waylaid by free beer and smooth jazz music. Oh wait, that’s Rusted Root.

12:30 a.m. Kate zips in. Apparently, a cop stopped her and said she couldn’t ride her scooter to the riot. I don’t really know what she’s talking about, but a scooter ride sounds good to me.

1 a.m. I meet up with a bearded fellow and a foxy man in a red and white hat. (Call me, Jeff).

1:30 a.m. Legends. A Purdue girl in the bathroom likes my skirt. She tells me congratulations on the game. Don’t have the heart to tell her I napped through it. Instead, I give her a half-hearted “Go Illini!” and she lets me cut in line.

3:30 a.m. Find myself in bed by the wall yet again. Am very cold, a little dizzy and have looming piles of work waiting for me tomorrow.

3:31 a.m. So much for the wild life of a college student. Realize that I am sleeping on phone books and a milk jug. Next stop: Hollywood.