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Life In The Lower Middle Tier

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Every morning I wake up pondering whether or not I should even wear my fraternity letters around campus. Earlier this semester, I had this one top tier girl in my class that would sit next to me and flirt with me every day until I made the mistake of wearing my letters to class. That was the day I knew how the next three and half years were going to be.

Bid week began last Thursday, but of course we had a Nationals boner staying at our house the first two nights so no parties for us (not out of the ordinary). I honestly do not even know why Nationals even checks in considering we literally follow every rule possible. The Christian Fellowship House breaks more rules than we do.

Some of us were lucky enough to be able to go to the bars as others got turned away with their pitiful, Chinese, fake identifications. The stragglers were unfortunately trapped in our house that has been described as a shitty apartment complex. With Nationals there, they were not able to smoke away their time like Cheech and Chong as per usual, so instead they ventured out to my buddy’s 2000 Honda Odyssey minivan. Yes, kids in my lower middle tier house drive lower middle tier minivans. I would rather walk everywhere than be seen driving around campus with a bunch of dudes in a minivan, looking like a soccer mom.

The time finally came for our first bid week party Saturday night. We somehow managed a pregame with a top tier sorority, but naturally, we were paired with some very middle tier girls that some would even call an accomplishment for us. The pregame started off better than usual with about half the brothers actually excited to party. One by one, these smokeshow girls walked across the street in risky business themed clothes (don’t worry, they weren’t dressed slutty for us).

I even thought I might be hitting it off with this blonde who was an absolute 10 after I got her number. That was until her pledge ride got there. She ran out of our house faster than Usain Bolt, and only texted me at 3 a.m. asking for a ride so she could get home. I was being used and I honestly didn’t even mind it on the slim chance that she ever steps foot in our house ever again. Around 11, after stealing all of our alcohol (about 21 handles), the girls ventured out to a top tier fraternity to actually have fun, and our party room looked like the Israelites mass exodus from Egypt in the Before Christ era. Suddenly, all the hot girls just vanished, making way for the sheer, mediocre prudes that would soon join us.

We had a pajama theme that night, and the influx of threes and fours in onesies, looking actually ready for bed, made my average sized penis shrivel up like a raisin. On the bright side, this was the perfect opportunity to drown myself in alcohol like a toddler who can’t swim while standing in the corner all night. The only entertaining part of the evening was seeing a kid cry after getting hit in the face by another brother, followed by him flopping worse than LeBron.

He was trying to hook up with the guy’s previous conquest (I know, shocking that guys in my house even get pussy) but she wasn’t having any of it. Now I don’t normally condone violence but let’s be brutally honest; you probably belong in the lower middle tier if you cry like a little bitch after getting hit in the face. After that I don’t remember anything else from the party because, well, why would I?

That my friends, is the sad, pathetic life I acquired by pledging the lower middle tier. Did I join the wrong house? Yes, but everyone always loves a good underdog story.

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