Here’s something: I lived in a frat house for three months.
It wasn’t as bad as you might guess. Actually, it was nice. I only got two parking tickets that summer. I also read several issues of Men’s Health, cover-to-cover, on the toilet. It was a type of tourism. (“I’m in here!” I’d shout from my toilet’s stall, absolutely panicked anytime I heard the bathroom door open. In a frat house you can never predict when and how someone will be naked.) (more…)