I’m an awkward 6’8” lanky white boy. I feel uncomfortable walking up behind a girl I don’t know, someone’s daughter for that matter, and so delicately introducing my pelvis to her rear as our generation's way of flirting.

What happened to romance? Where’s my John Cusack boombox serenade? Blast music in the front of a stranger's lawn nowadays and you’ve got a restraining order on your hands. ‘80s movies had a very different idea of romance compared to modern day cinema and, of course, as a socially awkward movie buff, I tend to base my idea of romance on old ‘80s movies.

The feeling is very much the opposite of a sensory deprivation tank: the persistence of constant sensory overload. From the unbearable stench of sweat, dangerously loud music, and the constant inability to move your body an inch without colliding into an intoxicated Vineyard Vines Ad. Whom then may decide whether to not to vomit and rally now, on you, or later, and not on you. Hint: it doesn’t go your way.

It isn’t like me to hate on partying, I’ve done my fair share. However, the party scene has become too one dimensional. Tight spaces, loud music, an overcapacity-amount of people, and enough alcohol to kill a whale; you won’t see much variety. I’m not ready to give up the party, I just need a change of pace. Let’s get creative; I want a live band, maybe a bouncy house, anything to separate this gathering from the drug-infused grope fests that permeate the current college environment.

Empathy, it is the practice of which I have the decency to avoid putting another individual through the debacle that is my body. To be suddenly overtaken by an enormous object, drawn by gravitational force toward its center. Nature is horrifying, I’m incapable forcing its horror upon an unsuspecting victim.

I think I’ve gone partially deaf, loud repetitive music that hasn’t changed since the ‘90s will do that to your eardrums. I’m requesting a substitute, it would be unhealthy to take this lifestyle any further. It’s like a disease, or perhaps an addiction, it slowly wears away at your health until one day the sickness slaps you in the face; but you still party because, after all, it’s college.

My ideal “party": bouncy house in one corner, live band in another. There’s a nap room, think sensory deprivation, where no one will bother you. And the entire event takes place on the moon because I’m an adult, and I’m on earth, and I’m not allowed to enjoy a bouncy house.