Twenty-one is a weird age. I’m too old to still be traipsing around frat houses, too cool to show up at the bar before 1 AM, too young to be taken seriously by older guys, and too busy to not be dying to blow off steam at the end of the week. Luckily, I live in a house with thirteen other similar people, and at the beginning of the year we made a list of alcohol theme nights. (I am soooo over costume theme parties, obvs, not counting my Lady Gaga Halloween get-up.) Here’s a breakdown of what’s happened so far. It’s also a good case for why I should probably learn to limit myself.

Mojitos, Mo’ Problems- Our first night back at school. I haven’t seen my roommate Nora in many months, and her thick dark hair now falls to the middle of her back. Coming off a summer obsession with the Manson family, I start referring to Nora as “Leslie van Houten” for the rest of the night, as they do now bear some resemblance. When she finds out who that is, she gets upset and insists that I stop. I don’t. Later on, I almost purchase a pitbull at Clancey’s.

Lon Gislands, Lon Gnights- I black out circa 10 pm, then call every boy I’ve liked in the past year a minimum of four times in the middle of the night. I call Lon Gisland native Neel Shah five times. The last time, I tell him I love him.

Gin and Juice (Mind on Money, Money on Mind)- This party takes place on September 12th, the same day 22 years ago that South African apartheid police tortured black consciousness leader Steve Biko to death while Biko was held in detention. I cry for twenty minutes while talking about this, and then force all thirteen of my housemates to listen to “Biko” by Peter Gabriel on repeat until they make me go to bed.

This weekend’s theme is “Welcome to the Jungle Juice.” My best friend Paige is visiting from northern Ohio. I can’t wait to see what happens.

I’m going on a first date tomorrow. I haven’t been on one of those in a while— at least not the traditional awkward dinner/interview kind, and so I’m kind of nervous. Really nervous, actually. And when I’m nervous, I (as Luda might say) act a fool. That means anything from talking too fast to talking too fast while revealing my whole sordid life story, including the night involving the townie stripper. My roommate Nora knows me better than most people, so I asked her for some advice about how to keep calm around my burgeoning suitor.

“Just be yourself,” she said. “But not too much.”

I try to defend this town for all it’s worth. “Just because I live in rural central Ohio doesn’t mean I’m a hick. Just because everyone here talks in a redneck accent doesn’t mean they are rednecks. We’re good and hard-working people, but we’re also sophisticated people, too! We’ve got a lot of culture and liberalism! I don’t fly over here, I fly INTO here!”

And then I end up at Clancey’s Pub between 12:30 and 1 am, and there’s a guy sitting near the bar wearing a Confederate flag t-shirt and selling pitbull puppies, which sleep in a cardboard box by the pool table. “Do you want one?” he asks. “They’re reeeal sweet. It’s all how ya treat ‘em. Won’t bite cha or INNYthing.” And I am reminded exactly where I am.

Maybe it’s just the turning of the leaves and the bats on my windowsill (baby vampires!). But for some reason, always this time of year, I  get very afraid of someone sneaking into my car late at night in the library parking lot, waiting quietly in the backseat, and then doing something terrible once I leave the building, get in, start the car and start driving. Before late night trips back to my house, I always check the backseat and turn on the inside light just in case this time is THE time.

Surely other people have felt this too, right?