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How Your RA Would Act If They Stopped Taking Their Job So Damn Seriously

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The type of person drawn towards being a resident advisor isn’t typically your run-of-the-mill boozehound. There are some exceptions whom I’ve had the pleasure of encountering, but for the most part an RA isn’t someone you’re going to find yourself partying with. What you can usually expect is an over-excited, wide-eyed young adult with a passion for icebreakers, encouraging words, and uplifting stickers. Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with this type of person, and, on occasion they can actually be a breath of fresh air and a nice change of pace from the constant grey cloud looming over everyone’s heads during the school year. More often than not, though, the RA type will call the cops on you for jaywalking and find a way to have you blacklisted from every school in the country for smoking weed out of an apple once. Wouldn’t it be nice to have an RA who’s every bit as much of a self-deprecating piece of shit as you? Here’s how the dream RA handles a few things college life has to throw at you.

The mandatory floor meeting wherein all of you degenerates meet with your new commander-in-chief would be a lot less fake. As you and countless other bodies flood into the room, you notice that something is amiss: there is a lack of any individual filling the leadership role. You sit for about ten minutes wondering what the hell is going on. Just as you’re preparing to get off your sorry ass and wander around like a proverbial chicken with its head cut off, a tall, dark, and hungover man slumps down in the only chair stationed at the front of the room.

“Alright, you fucking peons,” he addresses you affectionately as he proceeds to slide on a pair of scratched ray bans and lights a cigarette.

“Names aren’t important; you’re going to be judged strictly on your looks and ability to put yourself into harm’s way. Ha! Just kidding. I’m Brad. But seriously, we’re not going to bother with any of your names because my head is fucking pounding. Alright, what’s next… What. Is. Next……… Oh! Rules!”

Brad, in all his hungover glory, begins to remove a crumpled-up piece of paper from his left pocket. On the paper, crudely scrawled in red crayon, reads only one word — “RULES.” Brad immediately rips the paper in half and pops the collar on his teal polo shirt.

“This isn’t some PC playground where everyone’s feelings matter, and I’m sure as hell not going to helicopter parent you towards a happy, healthy year full of personal growth and fun, safe experiences. Class dismissed,” Brad proclaims, leaving you in shock and in awe of the mysterious nature of your new god.

As our readers are mainly composed of those in the upper echelons of society with an extensive grasp of all modern knowledge, I’m sure that many of you are already aware that as a resident adviser, you’re responsible for planning about two floor activities per month. Most RAs take this opportunity to get everyone together so they can all memorize the 78 genders while eating shitty cafeteria-catered food.

The ideal scenario that Brad embraces consists of a much simpler premise: throwing caution to the wind and embracing every drunken idea that pops into his head. These events will include, but are not limited to, large amounts of liquor and other mind-altering substances, drinking games, and several noise complaints. The destruction of personal and public property IS NOT off the table, and is, in fact, encouraged. “Watching the big game” and having a few drinks with your floormates is much, much more tame, but isn’t a terrible idea, either. Nothing beats getting fucked up and watching two men smash a ball back and forth whilst screaming in a language you don’t understand. Any activity falling under the scope of these two ideas is sure to beat whatever game of “Microaggression Bingo” your wet blanket of an RA has lined up.

Sadly, Brad wouldn’t last a single year before being beat into submission by the long sword of the other SJWs who wear the title of RA like a badge. But that’s not the point. The point is that having a self-proclaimed “full-time beauty” as an RA, no matter the catastrophic consequences it may have on your physical health, is far better than having a self-proclaimed narcotics officer. An RA should be someone you don’t have to hide your bullshit from. You’re a young adult; not doing stupid/illegal nonsense is literally not an option. The optimal RA thinks like a brother, not a nagging aunt, and is on your side. Surprise room inspection? It’s not going to catch you off guard; just hide your shit, idiots. You’re the one that puked in the common room? I didn’t see anything, you nasty fuck. Camaraderie with a side of sarcasm is the ideal RA motto.

If you’re a resident advisor currently regurgitating food to one of your hatchlings, it’s time to wake up and smell the roses. You’re a kid, too, so act like it. Instead of shutting down a party because you saw ping pong balls being thrown into a red cup — which “promotes binge drinking” — how about your silly ass takes a celeb shot? Time to take the blue pill, Neo. Welcome to the real world.

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