There is a real sort of lonely misery that gradually builds in the packed, smoky atmosphere of a frat house during an ear-ringing concert. The cops are outside and the marker scribble on my hand indicates that I am not an underage individual, though I am. Which is quite fine, as I will not be drinking anyway.
People I rarely ever speak to in my day-to-day movement across campus high-five me, shake my hand as they walk by. Some linger for a longer, slurry chat.
I don't know why I'm here.
Then the red light hanging from an extension cord above the makeshift stage brightens. The voice of the band's front man grows louder, climactic, as the drum-dominated beat of their current selection drives harder on. I stand in the corner and exchange a tense glance with a former friend, looking equally as rhythmless as myself, who stands at the opposite corner of the room near tone-distorting speakers. I am comforted by the fact that someone else in place is as disconnected as I am.
The dancing grows wilder. Burning cigarettes rake against flailing items of clothing. Three women from my English class grab annoyingly at my jacket, attempting to remove it, to bring me in to the gyrating ring of spaghetti-strap-top-wearers. A couple leaves no room for Jesus 20 feet away from me.
The girl in orange faux Ray Bans and pearls spills her Keystone on my shoes.