Last semester, I became aware of a startling trend sweeping the university: on-campus residents drunkenly finding themselves in the dorm rooms of strangers.

I thought it only to be the stuff of college folklore, like the “if your roommate commits suicide, you get all A’s” rule or the fabled Freshman 15 (more like 30). But myth took the form of a half-naked stranger rummaging through my roommate’s clothes at roughly 3 a.m. one Saturday.

At first I dismissed this vision as a very strange dream, but when Drunk Girl put on a pair of my roommate’s shorts, ripped the sides of them (for unknown reasons) and proceeded to crawl in my bed, tthe reality of this event was confirmed. Once my new bedmate realized I wasn’t “Heather,” she delivered a slurred apology and disappeared into the Buddig Hall abyss.

It’d be great if this story packed fodder for interesting party or mealtime conversations, but I would come to find out that the drunk-stranger-in-my-room story was old news. I related what I thought to be an epic tale to anyone who’d listen, only to be one-upped by a similar, more interesting anecdote. The stories I heard ran the gamut in degrees of strangeness, but the underlying theme was that drunken disorientation seems to be as part of the Loyola experience as awkward encounters in the Underground and occasional outdoor classes.

I guess it’s not really a good thing that this phenomenon of strange intruders has become much of Loyola milieu. You’re bound to find yourself in compromising situations if drinking renders you unable to remember where you live. I mean, we’ve all been plagued by the bad ideas that fill our mind while under the influence of alcohol and the poor choices that follow. But text messaging old flames and dancing on elevated surfaces is one thing – finding yourself bottomless in a random room in Buddig is another.

This trend raises questions of our deteriorating morality and general disregard of Jesuit ideals at good ol’ “Sex and Alcohol University.” While that may be true, I find it fascinating that Loyola is one of the only places where such a transgression merits, at the very least, light-hearted gossip at your expense (or a column in The Maroon). I realized that if a similar encounter with Drunk Girl occurred in the setting of my suburban household, things would’ve gone down a bit differently – ending with a pistol-packing dad and most likely a court-mandated restraining order against the pants-less perpetrator.

A trend like this is another one of the those aspects of Loyola that proves that this place isn’t at all like the real world. Loyola may try to be a microcosm of the real world, with its miniature grocery store, miniature post office and other things thatsomewhat resemble reality. But there are also things that just don’t happen anywhere else – which is why it’d be incredibly boring to be anywhere else.

Also, my former roommate still wants her shorts back.