As I embarked on my journey to Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA) this past weekend with my best friend, I had a few things on my mind: “Will Baltimore be as ghetto as I’ve heard?,” “Exactly how bad will the people we’re visiting be?,” and “How much of my own alcohol should I bring to ensure that I can tolerate them?”
I had expressed concern ahead of time about my ability to tolerate the art school wahoos and whether or not there would be enough booze to keep me content enough to not go on a rampage about why everybody there sucked at life (or to potentially fuel that same rampage), but my friend had assured me that the people were “not that bad” and that their level of drinking would be up to par with that of Greek life. I was skeptical of both of these things, so I supplied myself with a fifth of Mr. Daniels’ fine Tennessee Honey whiskey as my medicine of choice.
The first night, the plan was to go to a house party in Towson. Hold on — house party? Now I know how kids felt during welcome week when they didn’t have any Greek connections yet. Poor bastards. Halfway there, we find out it’s BYOB. People say you pay for your friends by going Greek? No, you pay so you don’t have to fucking “BYOB.” Idiots. It also happened to be midnight already, and no place was open to buy liquor. This night was going from bad to worse, and it was still going downhill.
We finally arrive and there are a few hipsters sitting outside blasting cigs and drinking Natty Bo. Great. There were hipsters inside as well drinking Yuengling — one saving grace, I suppose — and playing Jenga. FUCKING JENGA. What?
I look to my left and there’s a table; it turned out to be a beer pong setup… almost. It was six cup instead of the traditional 10. Weak. They originally tried to say that we would have to pay for our beers to play pong, and we said fuck that. I’d rather give my money to one of the homeless guys on any of the Baltimore street corners who’s going to use it for crack. Some of the hipsters decided it was a good idea to try and pick up my girlfriend, which I found hilarious. It got us free beer, at least. I was also told that I was hipster for wearing Sperrys. I chuckled and went on not valuing the opinions of anyone there.
Fast forward to the next morning: I decide to start drinking what’s left of my Jack before we go out to eat so I can tolerate these fucks. While we’re eating, I have a couple more drinks (they were even more satisfying after using my Maryland fake in the state of Maryland). We go back to the apartment and go to the pool. I pass out in seconds, successfully avoiding conversing with these losers for a few more hours.
Later that night, we’re getting ready to go out and this nerd named Thor made an attempt at mocking me for something. I just said, “Good thing I value your opinion,” and walked out. We end up at some girl’s apartment and it’s somehow worse than the party the night before. I also noticed that all of these people’s homes were filthy and there were cats everywhere. Quite off-putting. The fact that all art students seem to have cats just gave me yet another reason to hate cats. And art students.
Luckily, I had an entire fifth of Rumple Minze to myself that I was sipping on all night. I don’t even know why I decided to get it, but it was 100 proof, so it helped me accomplish my goal. I didn’t want to be inside playing Jenga — I still haven’t figured out why that was a thing for these goobers — so I sat outside brown-bagging that night’s medicine. I wasn’t partaking in the conversation, but there were a few things that were so painfully absurd I couldn’t help but take note of them.
For starters, they were talking about something called “Mutant Vampire Zombies from the Hood…”
Fuck me sideways.
And later, I heard this gem: “I don’t buy expensive liquor often because I drink too much for it to be economically viable.”
I’m sorry, do you hate yourself?
And even later: “I want to make an Instagram video.”
You are literally the worst type of person.
One of my favorites: “Art students can drink.”
I doubt it. This was after this guy tried to explain to me how he doesn’t like to get “that drunk.” The way he described it was like a freshman in high school who’s just discovered alcohol and tinkles himself at the prospect of blacking out. I remember when I was 13, nerd.
From the 13-year-old, again: “Half my wardrobe is from the thrift shop.”
Yeah, I can tell.
Lastly, there was a guy wearing your typical cut-off skinny jeans with that ironic baseball T-shirt and a hipster handlebar (hipster-bar?) mustache, who made the most priceless face when I proclaimed, “It’s Yeezy season.” I forget what context it was in — and for the record, I hate Yeezus — but the look on his face was comparable to that of Major League‘s Roger Dorn when he is expected to dive for a ball: complete and utter disbelief.
At some point in the night, I wound up on the top level of the parking garage pissing on some hipster’s little red Ford Focus. That may have been one of the highlights of the weekend.
Toward the end of the night, there was a sizable roach crawling around outside. I didn’t want that shit near me, so I picked up the broom that was on the ground and started brutally smacking at it on the ground. Well the fucking broom broke, so I tossed it from where we were up on top of the parking garage. Later that night, my friend threw some money down on the table for the girl to buy a new one, and everyone said not to tell her. As we were headed to bed, I heard her call my name before unleashing a hellish fury on me — something tells me she was feeling extra angsty and hated by the world that night. Chill, it’s a fucking broom. The best part is when I told her I was killing a roach, she actually said, “Do you think the cockroach deserves that?!” Really? Are you going to save the world, lady? One filthy cockroach at a time? Fucking hipsters.
In the end, I established that I had been entirely right from the beginning: I did hate everybody, they couldn’t drink with a five-year-old, and hipsters suck more than I thought was possible. In the morning when we left, a piece of broken glass that had ended up in my shoe pricked me in the toe. I pulled it out and then made sure to confirm that I had all of my shots so I didn’t get some terrible virus like tetanus, hepatitis, or “hipster.” I also proclaimed that, to quote Stu from The Hangover, “This place should be burned to the ground.” Not because it was anything like Vegas; just because it’s full of dirty hipsters..
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