I ran like an overjoyed child into my first frat party, and only a mere two hours later, stumbled out of my last frat party like Charlie Sheen's drunken doppelgänger.

My body is just barely grasping at its last strings of life as the Four Lokos from last night savagely excrete what feels like my soul being smuggled off by the evil pendejo of frat row.

My first genuine greek experience was tainted by my inability to connect to a weekly elitist exodus of people inadequately prepared for winter.

10:30 pm: The Exodus

The exodus begins and this phenomenon of cold weather hits my bare skin and my common sense throws up the middle finger at this lure to conform. Herds of student-cattle scuttle their ways to one of many evening parties, like robotic livestock attuned to a telepathic call to get absolutely trashed.

11:00 pm: Consent, My A**

Bids?! If you don't yet know what a bid is, it's exactly what you don't imagine-- a wristband! A f****** wristband! Once you pass the security that securely allows access to minors, another (likely) minor nonchalantly greets you with a supremely informative consent talk. The freshman girls in skin tight dresses, along with myself and a few friends, find ourselves naively caught in the young frat boy's net of a Panhellenic-appeasing-speech.

11:05 pm: The Non-Sorority Girls Get #Sratty

We bust through the front doors into a beautifully trashed male encampment lit up like a haunted house on drugs, bumping mediocre music, exploiting emotional unintelligence.

11:30 pm: Welcome To The Land Of Drunken Frenzy & Mediocre Tunes

The remaining crowds are herded through the gates of X Frat into the land of drunkenness and remixed radio hip-hop hits that radiate the familiar sound of cringe-worthy High School parties.

Upon entry, the men inhale the influx of female pheromones as the women exhale insecurity. Women pile upstairs as half-clothed men race back and forth between rooms, seeming to be on a Godfather-spoof-of-a-secret mission that must be attended to between hosting groups of prospective sexual fantasies-- as if to say, I'm gonna make her an offer she can't refuse.

12:00 am: Keef, The Bartender

The guy who served me jolly rancher flavored death-in-a-cup was sublimely named Keef— maybe it was Keith, but at 12 am and too many foreign substances swishing around my body, it was KEEF.

12:30 am: "Superman That Hoe"

Soulja Boy?! "Crank That" was released 11 years ago when a majority of the party's attendees were still in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL! I reminisced (alongside a few others) with the same crunk superman dance routine we used to practice in front of our childhood bedroom mirrors during those glorious middle school days of cult rap songs.

1:00 am: The Trek Home

Making the exodus home through Berkeley's dark streets of regular armed robberies and sexual assaults is a disturbing mix of drunken oblivion and an innate keen attention paid to avoid being the victim of tomorrow morning's UCPD email announcement.

Although my night wasn't quite on par with Animal House, I dipped my toes into a culture that too closely mirrors a Hollywood fantasy-- a fantasy that ended at 1/15 of the times spent regurgitating my night's intoxicated sins, emitting sounds, that if you listen closely enough, translate to, "DON'T EVER F****** DO THAT AGAIN!"