By Noah Williams

There is no escaping the merciless onslaught of Smirnoff Ice hidden in the chip bowl, or the wild, sticky, groping admissions of love and guilt, when you accept the invitation to a Christmas party hosted by college students. For one glittering, shiny moment everyone has their clothes on, no has fallen down yet, and no blood has been spilt, and then — the whole engorged charade explodes into a frothy sea of vomit and retrograde regret.

This is how the youth of the white upper-middle class celebrates the holidays: by putting on fancy clothes and drinking until it doesn’t hurt anymore.

It is a glorious scene to behold: gleaming glass bottles purchased with fake IDs, home-brewed beer that either explodes or tastes delicious when you open it. All the women are dressed in their finest drinking attire — clothes that are nice, but no too nice to spill beer on — while the men are either immaculately trimmed in three-piece suits and bowties or else in ragged sweaters and Hawaiian shirts.

Such an event usually includes a Yankee Swap, in which the loudest woman and man stand on chairs and screech at each other until the first gift is unwrapped. A glass usually breaks at some point, and someone passes out cheap cigars.

Outside in the snow, the cheap cigars are lit, and a bottle of champagne laps the babbling smokers until a some girl dares herself to run naked through the snow, and then a few more join in, and a few more after that. The aftermath totals a scarred asscheek and a few burn marks.

From there, it’s on to the wrestling match, where sexual tension roils beneath the surface. A few of the Yankee Swap gifts have already been broken, and somebody goes in search of a broom and returns with another Smirnoff Ice, chugging it on one knee with the assembled cheer with wild heathen yells.

The herd is noticeably thinner now, and only the bravest soldier on. A few rank couples scurry off to dark corners, while someone calls for an orgy. By now, the words make little sense to the pickled brains and fuzzy ears.

Someone has been found puking on the stairs, and someone props them up over a toilet while the rest figure out what to do. Red wine gets spilled on the carpeted stairs along with the vomit, while six or so people grapple with yellow gloves.

Suddenly, amongst the incoherent, the feeling of self-loathing and inadequacy that you came armed with has abated. All those you feared better than yourself have succumbed to the greedy, vapid expanse of class and wealth. You begin to realize through the inebriated fog of war that no one here is happier than anyone else, and misery plagues all those who live on this earth equally.

Reassured, you drift off to sleep against some strange body, or in a pile on the floor, vindicated by the tremendous fear that we all feel surrounding the great unknown.