Since I graduated from the shallow end of last year’s double cohort, I’m closer in age to you than any other owl passing on his or her wisdom in this section.
Consequently, I’ve kept the preaching to a minimum. If you are not my age or older, you’re only a couple of months younger than a second-year student who still can’t drink legally. But I digress.
What follows are three suggestions from which you might actually benefit.
1. “Hey frosh, how do you feel?” Fear not if, at any point during Frosh Week, you feel that a conversation with a campus squirrel about the finer points of acorn-gathering would be more titillating than singing the Oil Thigh and acting like a complete tool for the rest of the week.
Contrary to the icy vibe you might get from the rest of your bamboozler-tooting frosh group, you’re not a freak if you do not enjoy cheering until your throat feels like a cotton patch.
Remember, not all frosh attended summer camp. Or band camp. Or future-leaders-of-the-world camp. And you’ve arrived at a point in your life now where you should not envy those who did. Don’t fret about what your schmuck of a floormate is doing on Thursday night, unless his or her activity genuinely interests you. Or if he or she keeps stumbling into your door yelling drunken babbloo. That’s not enjoyable either.
2. Stupid is as stupid does
Go to Stages or the Cocamo if you must, but don’t be an idiot. During a fisticuff outside the bar last winter, someone cracked my floormate’s friend’s head with a baseball bat, and doctors had to staple stitches into his scalp. Crap still happens to those who seek it.
Other moron moves that won’t win you an invitation to your don’s end-of-the-year pizza party include bowel movements and vomit in the urinals and shower stalls. And if you’re not going to do your readings, the only people who care are the mooks showing up late during their finals at Jock Harty.
3. Thou shalt not throw food
Piss on a tree, steal a spoon, or take the “wet floor” signs in residence. But, no matter how drunk you are, no matter how funny it seems and no matter how much you hate the Sodexho food, don’t throw food in the cafeterias. Not even a potato chip.
Our food fight fiasco last year smacked of spoiled excess—silver-spooned rich kids sent to Queen’s on Mommy and Daddy’s bill, coagulated with disrespectful brats who should’ve been forced by Queen’s admin to spend the rest of exam period with panhandling teenagers at the bottom of Princess St. Do better than the 500 frosh who spoiled what would have finished a successful first year for the double cohort.
Also, remember a Dr. Seuss quip calling life “a great balancing act.” That’s my only genuine suggestion.
So I lied—I preached. But if you forget my first three points—especially the one about food-throwing—you’re cetainly not helping the humankind evolution theory. Welcome to Queen’s.
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