Students choosing colleges in their junior or senior year of high school usually fall into one of two categories; those who actually want to do something productive with their education, and those who would rather spend those four precious years partying, drinking, and getting laid. Those that choose the former are normally the less popular kids, studying rather than socializing, taking Honors courses, and trying to learn as much as they can about the subject they wish to study. Those that choose the latter are usually the complete opposite; top of the social pyramid, stylish yet uncaring, and more concerned with that new top at the mall or game day tickets than studying for a history exam. Sometimes there is even a third group that flip-flops between studying and slacking, and that is where making a decision gets difficult. Colleges look for high scores, and those who study get into the top schools without breaking a sweat. Those who think that school is a joke might just take 2 years of community college and then see what comes next. But there is that special breed of teenager who does well in school, yet arrives at college and completely flips their behavior. Those are the type of people that I cannot stand.

Now that all of the assumptions and accusations have been laid upon the table, let me tell you about myself. My name is Rainbow Dash, and I attend Redford College in Amboy, Illinois. I was pretty popular in high school – not enough to become Mean Girls material or enough to be surrounded by a posse of loyal followers – but I was able to make friends easily and was always one of the first people to form a partnership when a class called for it. And before you jump to conclusions, I am not one of those air-headed slackers, the ones who are too concerned with a social life to study for their exams; I actually got into college on my grades alone, since I barely participated in any clubs or organizations after school besides soccer and track. Although I snuck by with B-'s in all my classes, my SAT's were pretty stellar, thanks to my friend Twilight Sparkle and the combination of both scores secured me a spot in a good quality college. I had done extensive research on Mayfield University, my first choice, imagining taking my communication courses in the beautiful but modern buildings and talking with all my friends who had already been accepted. However, since they required a paper about all the community service I had done over all my high school years, and I had done no community service, I was denied. I was pretty distraught, but I wasn't going to let that get me down. There had to be some other option.

Redford was a school that was talked about in those parent groups that moms join, all the women gabbing about how their son/daughter loved it there and how they came out of the college with a job and a bright future. After doing a fair amount of research on their website, I found out that they had a really good communications program and a wide variety of internships, which I knew would impress my parents. I was accepted almost right away; they liked my good grades and personal essay, which I was actual pretty proud of. My mom and I bought everything we had to for my half of the dorm – I had been assigned a roommate named Pinkie Pie – and I even helped my mom pack everything into the car on move-in day.

Hours before I stuffed myself into the back seat, I took one more look at my disheveled room, with its scattered magazines, messy shelves and dresser, half-opened closet empty of clothes, and various blankets and stuffed animals strewn about the floor. I had been living here for 19 years of my life, cried on the sheets of my bed, wrapped myself in those spread out blankets on cold nights, and read all of those magazines several times over until my eyes stung. I was going to miss this place so much, but the prospect of making my own space away from my parents excited me enough to cut through my fog of nostalgia. Tossing the duffel bag on my arm up into the air, I shut off the light and closed the door gently, the metal knob feeling cold on my palm.

The campus that we approached looked very old and historic, with reddish brick walls standing against the light blue horizon and trees just starting to turn yellowish from the chill in the air. The silver-tone plaques on the class buildings were engraved with the different subjects that they held inside or the name of a particular building, which generally corresponded to a founder or funder, past or present. But the most interesting thing to me was the dorm set up. After I had gotten my key/ID combo and heard the generic "welcome to our college" spiel from the upperclassman at the table, I was allowed to go back to my dorm and finally unpack everything that was burdening my parents' arms, legs, and backs.

The four residence halls were arranged in a kind of big semi-circle, the plaques reading Frengle, Pronter, Readfern, and Winklin from left to right and not looking uniform in the slightest. I was assigned to Frengle, Room 205, and that residence hall looked stout and short, like a man who liked food a little too much for his own good. Pronter was long and skinny like a gentleman, Readfern had a small hallway between its two medium height parts, and Winklin was completely ordinary and reminded me of nothing but a rectangle. Long story short, my roommate was already in there, we said hi, became very quick friends, and in a week's time, I was starting classes in a new environment that promised excellence. But there was one crucial part to Redford that was missing from their website; it was a party school.

Remember earlier when I mentioned those students who completely changed their behavior when they entered college? Well, Redford seemed to hold a majority of them, and they were relentless. These weren't just the "let's-have-fun-and-get-to-know-each-other" parties organized by the faculty or a club on campus, where only light refreshments were provided and generic pop songs were played through broken speakers on the wall. These were the drunken parties that made colleges famous, the ones that caused car accidents, accidental pregnancies, and general destruction of property on occasion. It wasn't something that an academic board wanted to post on their school's website: "Come here for lots of wild parties, and we'll make sure that you feel crappy in the morning!" The strangest, and probably worst, part of all of this is that the parties were never caught by police officers, teachers, or student snitchers. They were either held in a remote area of campus so that the sound couldn't be heard for a good, long distance, or they were held on the weekends when all the teachers had left for their nice warm houses and decent morning coffee.

I thankfully did not give into this raucous culture, having never been much of a party person despite my popularity and the numerous invites in high school, but my roommate unfortunately did when a mutual friend invited her to a party in the basement of Winklin within the first week of school. She became hooked on the party atmosphere and meeting new people, usually coming home drunk most nights or with a boy that she "felt was the one." The couch in the residence hall common room probably has a me-shaped indent in its cushions because I have slept there so many nights while Pinkie did…who knows what in our dorm room. Her GPA crashed into the ground, her mood switched between ecstatically happy or depressingly sad, or fumingly angry, and contact with her parents started to deteriorate, along with her mental health, not that she had a strong grasp on either of them in the first place. Seeing her behave this way only made me reject the ideas of college parties further; I had a 3.7 GPA, for some inane reason, and my teachers liked me, so I was not going to jeopardize that for one night of "fun."

Then what am I doing sitting here on this stained, ripped couch in the basement of Pronter, flanked on each side by a vigorously smooching couple, eating each other's faces while in various stages of undress?

Pinkie's incessant pleas to come with her, her insistence that it would be fun and good for me, and her offers to take care of my entire look echo in my head, which is impressive since the music around me thudded like I was in a giant heart. "You're no fun, Dash! You're gonna love it there, and everyone is super friendly!" I can hear her squeak as she dances around the room in a short blue cocktail dress and white sandals with a 3 inch heel. Her hot pink hair is in perfect ringlets, her blue eyes are thickly lined in my Maybelline Master Precise eyeliner, her cheeks and eye lids are the same color of magenta, and her lips are the color of a ripe cherry. She looks like- and I don't mean to sound rude – a whore. She had been grilling me for 3 hours now, including over dinner and while she was getting dressed. Finally after holding out for so long, I finally sighed and gave in; she had worn me down and I couldn't take another hour of her voice telling me that I was "a lame, grumpy stick-in-the-mud." The sound that came out of her mouth was far from human as she dragged me off my bed, almost breaking my wrist, and stood me in front of her so that she can assess my condition.

Now, I buy a lot of stuff from Tilly's, American Eagle, and Macy's, but I put them together to create my own style. I usually go for simple patterns, stripes, leather, and anything in shades,of blue or yellow, but that does not mean that those are the only two colors I wear. Curently, I was wearing a short sleeve, solid black t-shirt with ripped sky blue jeans and blue sneakers with a leather jacket, casual but sporty and comfortable to boot. But Pinkie would have none of it and stripped me of those garments within minutes, shoving me into a strapless sapphire and gold dress that was slightly longer than her own dress, with a white cinch wrapping around my midsection. She grabbed her white heels and slipped them on me as her hands reached for her hair care stuff. I held out the fabric and sighed; the only good thing about this outfit was the color. Dresses aren't really appealing to me and neither were bust cinches, but I didn't have time to dwell on that notion because Pinkie dragged me over to her and sat me in front of the mirror.

Pinkie pulled back my somewhat wavy hair, which was dyed with all the colors of the rainbow in order and slightly pulled back, and brandished her straightener, giggling to herself as she plugged in the tool and waited for it to heat up. Coughing a few times into my arm, I closed my magenta eyes and tried to stay still as she got dangerously close to my scalp with the iron, passing over each section with precision and speed. She really wanted to get going. After my hair was straight and my face was covered in equally whorish makeup, she dragged me out the door and locked it, jumping and skipping down the hall like she had won the lottery. I followed her cold, unsure, and slightly pissed, mostly because she still had my wrist in the vice-like grip of her fingernails. I looked at my wrist and saw the red scarred marks that lay on the skin, sighing and shaking my head.

The room I am in currently can only be described as "brash." As mentioned before, the music is shaking the walls and my eardrums, wanting me to fall off the couch from its vibration. It isn't even good music; it's a bunch of offensive rap tracks promoting twerking and grinding on girl's fronts and rears, which a majority of the partygoers are already doing. The speed of the colored lighting could kill an epileptic, and the colors themselves look like a 5 year old threw their paint set into the projection system and waited to see what happened. Blues and oranges, pinks and greens, and yellows and violets are all blending together into a soupy mess staining the dance floor and walls. All of these pitiful pieces are controlled by one guy at the DJ booth, his black hair over one brown eye and his red headphones hanging around his neck loosely. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was being controlled by a puppeteer because his movements are spazzy and over exaggerated, like he's trying too hard to be energetic and happy. Even if he isn't happy himself, the cheers from the crowd and the chorus of off-key singing certainly tell me that the guests are having the time of their lives.

I take a look at my glass, swirling the last of my Shirley Temple around the bottom, and try to ignore the overpowering stench of alcohol in the air. Thank God they served non-alcoholic drinks and that I kept my cup with me the entire night; I have heard of too many rapes on college campuses caused by beverage-soluble drugs, and I am not going to be one of those many. However, it is getting very hard for me to concentrate on staying calm when the couple on my right is pushing me into the couple on my left; the girls' dresses were almost off completely, since without sleeves, the guys could just push them down. The sound of their kissing isn't too pleasant either. Eventually, I can't take it anymore, so I push them away, stand up, and walk out of the room, glancing back to see that both couples are lying on top of each other without care, pressing their intoxicated lips together in blissful ignorance.

The contrast between the party below and the steps leading to the first floor hallway is staggering. Here, there is barely any noise at all besides the reverb of the music behind me and the muffled sound of the air conditioner above me. But other than that, there is complete and utter silence. It is like I am in one of those sensory deprivation chambers that people go into to clear their minds from stress, except it is a much larger area and I can move around freely. In a moment of wonder, I place my hands against the wall and rub my hands downwards, the paper not pounding against my fingers like it was in the basement, and I can clearly hear myself think. Looking down at my dress with a hand still against the wall, I silently curse myself for agreeing to come here, the whistles from the drunken and sober guys alike echoing in my head. Oh, did I mention that the boys were whistling in my direction? I shake my head and sigh exasperated