They dance in an upright spoon shape, in the middle of a crowded apartment. It’s less of a dance and looks similar to how dogs mount people’s legs in reflex.

On her face the emotions are easy to gauge. In one instance you might guess utter terror, perhaps on the verge of tears and one good gyration from vomiting a stomach full of cheap liquor. The other instance is more commonly realized as a blackout, blind drunkenness, an emotional black hole skirting the edges of self-induced stupidity. This is standard and oddly associated with a good time.

If it were 10,000 or so years earlier this would likely be the point at which the male would grab a modest-sized rock and offer it to the side of the female’s head, then proceed to drag her by the hair to his cave. Unfortunately these simpler times are past our species.

Language and technology have become generally-adhered-to barriers to otherwise rampant unwise fornication, and when I think about it, I’m relieved and thankful for these developments. Sadly though, when it comes to using our words, we men unsurprisingly fall short of even the lowest expectations.

The dancing was easy; in fact he hardly had to move his feet. For a moment he seemed to be making good progress, but that was quickly replaced in her mind as soon as he opened his mouth.

You can almost see her interest feigning and physically leaving her body. Ultimately it ends when over the thudding bass he yells something to the effect of, “You dance Good.”

It’s risky, but she’ll bank on the chance he’s a decent guy and won’t throw up on her or try and do something perverted later that night. I don’t usually put much faith in statistics, but I’m inclined to assume the chances of the latter are slimmer than the width of the expired condom crammed into his wallet.

The whole ritual of “hooking up” really cheapens the experience and suffocates the build up of lustful anticipation in the onset of a newly-begun relationship. It’s hard for me to picture myself or anyone in the midst of sloppy romp suddenly thinking, “Wow, this is really nice girl. I wonder if she likes Italian food.” This is stupid in part because it’s common knowledge that everyone likes Italian food, but more seriously it is also the sad reality for a good number of college students across the country, even if it is a sort of parody.

Sometimes I wish for a revival of the old days of courtship and dating, something akin to the late ’50s or ’60s when cruising around in a soft-top and going to a drive-in were the standard. Maybe, at the end you could steal a pint of dad’s whiskey and trade sips until your stomach is warm and your cheeks are red and the two of you have built up enough courage to fool around a little. All I want to see is a little dignity put back into the emotional entanglement of young people.

I’m not going to lie to myself and say this isn’t a fantasy because being foolishly drunk and haphazardly promiscuous are most certainly tenured parts to life at a university. What I will say, with some experience, is that these are definitely not the best parts.

I’ve finally become far more interested in finding something I care to make as great an effort in as I once made toward becoming the premier drunk buffoon. I realize that my time is, infinitely better spent entrenched in a piece of quality literature or between the blushing limbs of the fairer sex, admittedly the latter being preferred.

Only at a university is there so much to marvel at in terms of books and women. The variety is endless and the only way to truly appreciate them is to respect their greatness, in form and content.

Let us all graduate from this part of our lives with our souls intact and our regrets few.

arts@lanthorn.com