Miranda H. who hails from a town just outside of Philadelphia, which technically counts as Philly if you  both like the Eagles and are completely delusional, is still excited to go to frat parties. “I just love the atmosphere,” she gushes to everyone who will listen, and also to the bored cashiers at Allegro’s. “The smell is just like…idk…MAGICAL. It covers everything. It makes me feel as though I’m in a real club.”

The smell Miranda is referring to is the mixture of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, urine, and the bitter disappointment of failed sexual encounters.

A follow-up question further confirmed suspicions that Miranda had never been inside of a “real club” before. “But it’s exactly how I imagine it would be,” she continued to the writer’s amusement and the joy of absolutely no one else. “There are so many cute boys and they dance so close and it feels so good! They even buy me drinks until the room spins even when I’m not dancing.”

Her concerned roommate reassured the writer that Miranda does not attend these parties alone, and that her friends are much more jaded than she is. “One time, I lost my wallet, and it was like, the most exciting, high-stakes game of hide-and-go seek I’ve ever played!” Miranda said, ignoring her roommate’s sarcastic mumblings.

Her roommate, Cassandra, has a different take on these parties. “I don’t understand her fascination with frat parties. She keeps telling me she hopes to get her first kiss, and that she feels really special when they let her in, as if they’re not just letting her in because the frat guys are just trying to get laid,” her roommate told me. “My favorite part of frat parties is showering when I get back to my dorm, but Mir seems to like the grime. She loves to sweat. It makes her feel “dirty” and “exotic” like some sick zoo animal in the wrong climate.” The interview concluded with Miranda screaming over her new Facebook invites, rubbing them into this reporter’s tired, haggard face while her roommate rolls her eyes.