When I went out to get this story, I was hoping to uncover some kind of sports hierarchy, with football at the pinnacle and smaller sports like rowing and rugby forming the base of the pyramid, kind of like the sturdiest four cheerleaders of the squad—they perform just fine, but everyone knows the crowd’s eyes will be drawn to the top.
This is the end. Or the end is near… something like that. With the rumored Mayan apocalypse scheduled to take place a mere five days after my Dec. 16 graduation date, those statements may have a functional purpose whether Doomsday hits the rest of the world or not.
Halloween in Madison is my own personal brand of Hell. Yes, you heard me correctly: I hate one of the most beloved occasions this party school still touts as a worthwhile celebration. And by Halloween, I of course mean Freakfest.
There are some things in life you cannot un-see… or un-feel, for that matter. But I think you’ll need a little more background information before I reveal to you the gritty details of my scarring summer experience and the events that led me to reform my views on hygiene, drugs (almost) and society’s capacity to maintain some semblance of human decency.