This year, illustrated with the colors of existential crises, mornings spent overslept and the unforgivable greasiness of ramen noodles galore, will reign on as one of severe writer’s block.
This semester, Fall 2018, will levitate eternally in the gloom of an awkward September afternoon, where individuals are forced to trade in their high waisted shorts for tarnished sweatpants and grocery shopping evolves into McDonald’s trips at midnight.
To combine the unforeseen and not-so attractive realities of this season, I can say these past three months have been the epitome of my having phenomenal vision, but poor execution.
But as Mount Pleasant transforms into an unvaried plate of grubby snow patches, departed grass and the invasion of acne-inducing stress, there exists a single pure joy to help me avoid facing my lack of creativity: holiday parties.
As it clearly seems I won’t be writing the next prominent American novel before New Year’s Day, it is time I return to the roots that ignited the essence of my writing career.
While I place my Dollar Tree reindeer antlers on top of my wavy hair and submerge my bathroom with golden glitter, I know the time has finally arrived for me to create this pivotal piece for December.
Below, I shall continue my legacy by introducing the types of dudes you meet at a Christmas party at Central Michigan University.
I consider myself the poster child for Christmas enthusiasm. My closet glistens with fluffy sweaters ornamented by sequence reindeer and snowmen, and I keep my feet warm with knee high socks capturing hearts and inspiring minds with snowflake patterns.
Although I’ve never seen “A Christmas Story” and I consider Netflix’s pathetic “A Christmas Prince” a revolting reference to the journalism community, which deserves so much better, the holiday spirit still prospers in my party girl heart.
While I don’t have any Christmas lights hanging up in my living room and never attend half the cookie-baking parties I get invited to, I still know how to drop it like it’s hot in a gold chain with sleigh bells and am empowered by Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You.”
Now as we journey down toward the fraternity house basement, let’s turn up the trap house remixes of “Jingle Bells” and get this slead.
Pimp Daddy Santa Clause
Christmas has always sustained a fruitful relationship with confidence. So when the Sheck Wes-obsessed broski in the lazy muscle shirt and tribal print-tattooed biceps decides to take a refreshing break from his entrepreneurship studies, it is only right he dresses up as the renowned Pimp Daddy Santa Clause.
Pimp Daddy Santa Claus is probably the version of Saint Nicholas you imagined while you were extremely sexually frustrated at 13 years-old and couldn’t stop daydreaming of an NSYNC reunion tour.
His hat is trimmed with leopard print fur and he’s probably made nine jokes already using the “ho, ho, ho” laugh, and “Mr. Brightside” hasn’t even played yet.
Will Pimp Daddy Santa Claus ever find his Rudolf to guide his sleigh through the frosty evening?
Only time and an abundance of cherry and lime jello shots will tell.
Awkward Dude in the Dad Sweater
This precious spirit has spent the past three weeks refreshing Blackboard and struggling to survive all-nighters devoted to statistics and a variety of capstone projects. His Christmas wish is to finally be a true adult, spending the holiday season getting classy-turnt off of overpriced beverages and conversations on the United States’ Trade War against China.
But instead of prospering in a city with a population consisting of more than just intoxicated college students and bucked tooth townies wreaking havoc in the nextdoor Walmart, he’s in a crowded basement requesting his DJing buddy to play Toto’s “Africa.”
He purchased his simple sweatshirt during a sale at the university’s bookstore, and is regretting allowing himself to get drunk off of a case of Miller High Life he found in his closet.
Despite still worrying about his upcoming exams and the lingering sensation of feeling unprepared, he’s still grateful for the beautiful people in his life.
Overconfident Guy in the Wrapping Paper Suit
He’s had this special gathering marked on the kitchen calendar since Oct. 30, and has promoted it heavily on social media of great reach and influence, such as Snapchat and Twitter.
When the day of the party finally arrived, he had Brother Joe drive him to Meijer at 12:30 p.m. to hunt down the perfect wrapping paper to construct his Big Money Wrapping Paper Suit.
As he stumbles to the dancefloor with a fifth of Svedka Vodka in hand, he knows immediately all men want to be him, and all women want to be with him.
His first words, “play ‘Mo Bamba’ bitches.”