Living In The House > Living Out Of House

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Nice Move

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It’s getting to be that time of year again. The leaves are changing colors. Your football team is finding impressive new ways to rip your heart out. A few straggler alumni covered in Sharpie are finally awaking from their Homecoming couch comas. And for many of you, you’re about to make the third biggest decision of your college experience, right after “Should I go Greek?” and “Mario Kart: great game, or greatest game?”: Should I live in the house next year?

Not everyone has the stones to live in the castle. It takes a certain type of man to thrive in that environment of debauchery. And if you’re not up to the task of scooting around in mop buckets, tying croakies around your doorknob, or yelling at pledges, then take a walk over to the apartments with the rest of the GDIs. You’re not a real man. Living in > living out, all day.

It’s The Best Time You Never Want To Have Again

There’s something charming about just how awful the third-world-esque living conditions are in the fraternity house. The chef only knows how to preheat five different meals, which are all variations of the same casserole. The bathroom sink floods each morning due to the dam of built-up (what you hope is) shaved facial hair. Each drywall hole paints a different story of hilarity that your pristine, ivy tower houses in the student ghetto could never compete with.

The fraternity house might be a dump, but it’s our dump, dammit. Besides, if it really starts looking like the aftermath of Miley’s shower getting hit by a wrecking ball, that’s why we have pledges.

You’re Not Surrounded By Nerds

House and apartment parties give the high school drama club a run for the weirdest social scene ever assembled. From dirty hippies to bookworms lurking on the sidelines to those doggam Qudditch weirdos, the vibe of who shows up to your out-of-house neighborhood block party is a nightmare straight out of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

You don’t need to worry about that 99% over-extending their welcome on Greek Row. The letters casting gigantic, forewarning shadows onto people on the sidewalk might as well be the bus kid in Forrest Gump. Not wearing Sperrys? “Seat’s taken”. Spent your weekend handing out PETA fliers? “Seat’s taken.”

This Is Why We Pledge

There’s just nothing better than the ability to roll out of bed half-conscious, throw on your gameday blazer, and make an immediate bee line towards wherever the Hank Williams is playing. And you know what? You earned it.

You went through the ninth circle of bows and toes hell as a pledge just to be able to finally go through that damn front door. You can still hear your torturous Hell Week song anytime you walk past the hazement. In the kitchen tile cracks, there are still pieces of grits that you subsisted on for what seemed like an eternity. And despite the ‘Nam-like flashbacks anytime you run into your pledge master, all that trauma still puts a big old grin on your face. Why? Because you now get to live with some of your best friends in the world in the very place that made it happen. What could be better than that?

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