“Dude, let’s get wasted tonight!”

I longed to hear those exact words for years as I suffered under the seemingly tyrannical regime of a strict Catholic household. Having spent consecutive weekends in my bedroom listening to Good Charlotte because the Madden twins were the only ones who understood what I was going through, I vowed to make up for all the missed Mike’s Hard Lemonades and Zimas in college.

So even though it made sense for me to go to a university that, you know, has a program for what I’m studying (can’t wait to take that “Interdisciplinary Degree Programs in Social Sciences” diploma to the career world!), I evaluated my school choices solely on a bar-to-student ratio. And when friends asked, “University at Buffalo—you mean, University of Alcoholics?” this one was a shoo-in. “I’ll show my stupid parents,” I thought.

Before I even stepped onto the academic spine for my first World Civ class, I already had a reputation for drinking. At freshman orientation, normally highlighted by awkward “Where do you live? What’s your major?” encounters, I had already been caught incoherently drunk…the morning AFTER my orientation. President John Simpson notified my mom, who in turn notified my dad, who was not just disappointed, but also very, very angry.

But I managed to play the “I’m just a stupid freshman, I learned my lesson” card and was miraculously still allowed to grace the vomit-stained halls of Wilkeson Quadrangle, where I was as motivated as ever to participate in the longed for debauchery. I’ll spare the details of nights at frat parties and PJ Bottoms—suffice to say that my reputation did not get much better, and there was a Facebook group in my name to prove it.

Surely I grew out of it—all freshmen do, right? Not so much. Early sophomore year, I attended a birthday party for one of my best friends in Canada, and woke up in an emergency room with another friend crying next to me, praying I wouldn’t die. I was scared shitless, but I knew it wasn’t my fault. I was tired. Overworked. Hungry. Hormonal. Stressed. I knew how to hold my liquor, but I just wasn’t myself that night.

Two weeks later, I was back in the game. Feeling confident with my double shot glasses, I was intent on showing good ol’ Mr. Barton just who was boss.

Until I ended up in an emergency room…again. But this time, there was no selfless friend holding my hand, telling me that it would all be all right. Now all I had was some machine beeping loudly next to me, an incoherent woman across the hall screaming in pain from all the drugs she was on, and tubes coming out of every crevice in my body. Who showed who, exactly?

Tara Sullivan comments in this issue about a study conducted by UB that found conclusive evidence between malt liquor and marijuana smoking. While to some this seems trivial, or maybe even obvious, the results found in this study may hold the key to helping people with addiction problems, and exploring the minds that won’t let them overcome these problems.

It is undeniable that we live in a culture of excess. Drink more, smoke more, “go big or go home.” Lindsay Lohan, Amy Winehouse, and Britney Spears are just a few of the myriad of celebrities who are making rehab seem stylish. But take it from me—there is nothing glamorous about $3,000 hospital bills, filthy paper gowns, and peeing in a cup. Oh, and did I mention, losing the respect of your friends and breaking the hearts of your family?

I’m not asking the UB population to give up drinking, or smoking, or anything else for that matter—what kind of Generation writer would I be if I did that? Just think twice before your eighth cup of jungle juice or twenty-third can of Keystone Light. The booze will still be there in the morning, but as I almost found out the hard way (twice), you might not be yourself.

Jill Gregorie,
Features Editor