However, amidst the first night of morning music and rock, I did overhear one guy’s desperation as he plotted whose bed he was going to invade at 2.36am, drunk on cheap liquor and lust. And I’m not judging, really, I’m not. I hate sleeping alone, too, which is why I very rarely do. I’m the kind of psycho that crawls into your bed when you’re passed out, silently laying there for the story and surprise, and I definitely don’t have a problem with spooning my bestfriend in a smaller-than-single bed, even when that means I’m fixed to not moving for the entire night. It could be a crazy cat-lady thing, I dunno. Or maybe it’s just human; after a solid night on this piss, it’s always nice waking up to a familiar face, particularly when you fancy a few comforting cuddles – except, of course, when he doesn’t remember your name. That’s slightly problematic. But, then, what isn’t? You gotta take it on the chin, honey. The truth only hurts if you let it.
The Campground prides itself on being a place of acceptance, excessive alcoholic consumption, openness, freedom and fun. Regardless of your age, race, sex or gender, the Karamu girls will find you a happy and tidy niche, so that before you know it, you’re a part of their dysfunctional family and taking part in red cards, outrageous ordeals and reluctant weekend workouts; only condition is, you be yourself and don’t apologize for it.
See, personally, I don’t struggle with talking to others. Socializing comes easily to me, and usually, it’s more of a case of saying too much, than it is of not enough. When I can’t find a connection with somebody, I search until I hit some sort frequency that can be resonated with; a common interest, hobby, or friend. It’s the reason why I like to wear my heart on my sleeve – it is much easier to decide if you like reading a book when it’s actually open. If my version isn’t what the other person is looking for, I'll let it be. You shouldn’t be offended when someone prefers horror over romance – just like you shouldn’t be scared if within the first few minutes of meeting me, I tell you you’re cute as hell, but that I’m not looking for love. After all, honesty is the best policy. And engaging in open conversation only is also what makes me, me.
After spending my second night at the ghetto, I’d made enough of these forward confessions to have me sent to an asylum, which all in all, didn’t seem too bad of a destination after a close encounter with some lunatic drink driver who shall not be named. However, after waking up at the Karamu Campground and being reassured that it’s okay to be yourself – to apologize for your mistakes but never for who you are – I instead opted for a hot bath at home and some soul-cleansing bedroom yoga.
The truth is, my disgusting obsession with routine and order will never cease to exist or be taken seriously by the ladies at Karamu Campground, who, quite frankly, enjoy basking in the filth of last Friday night’s party and find it extremely amusing when I comment on the flat’s tidiness. I don’t think I’ve ever been satisfied with the minimal amount of cleaning that occurs there on an irregular basis, nor with the fact that their meals are served in pet bowls. But that’s just a part of the deal; you don’t go to the Campground for a five-star experience equivalent to some fancy hotel, you go there to feel as though you’ve just been to Rhythm and Vines on the year there were riots and no rules. The mayhem is always worth more than a good laugh or two, and the stories you're able to tell afterwards summarize the student life and what it means to be young, fun and extremely, fucking dumb. Even I’ve found myself guilty of losing morals and making the most of it. The twenties are your time to make mistakes, forgive yourself, and move on. Every day is a new day, my friend – what’s a life worth living if you can’t enjoy it, too?