Wednesday, January 25, 2012


Never in a million years could I have imagined that I would be responsible for the well-being of a few hundred teenagers. If someone had told me when I was a junior in college that later in life I would be the individual I so despised in my hall, I would have thrown my Jell-O shot at them. Not only was I not RHD or RA material, I was barely college student material. Going to class was optional and debauchery was my life. Surprisingly, I only had two judicial meetings which resulted in me writing an apologizing note dripping with snark.

Looking back at my two years on the 7th floor in Ittibittisawashi Hall, I shudder, because I know some serious karma has been dropped on my head from the ResLife Goddesses. Boy, do I deserve everything I deal with from my rowdy residents.

I was yelled at for carrying around a beer in the common lounges. My friends and I made loud documentaries about fictional folk bands at 3am in the hallways. I stumbled home drunk and purposely woke up my roommate just to tell them I was drunk. And I wrote inappropriate comments on bulletin boards on other floors just to feel superior over the poor RA who would have to fix it in the morning.

I did not care if I was bothering anyone else in the building. I just assumed I was entertaining my peers who could not possibly be sleeping at 4:30am on a Wednesday. Who went to class anyway? Of course, my RA did not help the situation. They were just as raunchy and irresponsible as I was. Two of my favorite programs were Porn Night (prizes were given out to whoever could guess the correct size of the guy’s penis) and Strip Twister (there is a video online of it I am sure). In my eyes, they were the coolest RA at my school. Now, as a supervisor of RAs, I realize how horrible they were for the floor and for their residents.

If I they had been a good RA, I would have been written up and/or sent to counseling for alcohol abuse. Instead, my RA bought me liquor and taught me how to properly drink an Irish Car Bomb. Needless to say, my actions in college are coming back to me five-fold. Every time I am woken up by a screaming drunk student returning from a night at the fraternity house, I earned it. Every time I have to meet with a bitter student documented for drawing male anatomy on a dry-erase board, I earned it. Every time I have to respond to an incident dealing with alcohol, I earned it. Karma, as I have found out, has a long memory and does not forget. 

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