After a rather civilized indie band performance at the Farm, my friends and I (who are, for the record, not first years, even though we were out at 9:45. No really. We aren’t. Just ask) rolled up to Ye Olde Kenyone expecting a night of careless debauchery. After a kind sister doodled lines between my fingers in a vain attempt at Xs, we descended into Dante’s Inferno. The scene was a feast for the senses. The air smelled of sweat, beer and horny first years; the temperature was rising. Anonymous bodies, clothed in white and splattered with neon phallic hieroglyphs, packed onto the dance floor, fueled by a quintessentially collegiate soundtrack. For a moment, I lost myself, thinking I had walked into a state-school party (or what I imagine one would be like). Continue reading