It’s time for this week’s public service announcement, brought to you by your resident Returning Adult Student and all-around cranky bitch.

Dear fellow undergraduates:

No one cares how drunk you were last night. Really. Not even your friends. Trust me, it’s like describing that dream you had where everyone had tiny heads and sat around talking about spaghetti.

No one cares.

They’re just waiting for you to shut up, so they can share the scintillating details of last night’s random hookup, courtesy of Skol.

Please do not attempt to describe exactly how drunk you were. You need no special vocabulary to express how much Lysol your roommate should pick up at Jewel-Osco.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly fucked up, so much as I was shit-faced. Well, not so much shit-faced, as I was totally wasted. I was, you know, halfway between toasty and baked. Not exactly blitzed, but … “

Bonus points if you omit dirty words that The Daily, in its wisdom, will actually publish. You know, to preserve its journalistic integrity.

Do not wax philosophical on your powers of alcoholic tolerance. Now, that’s a handy superpower. It’s Drink You Under the Table Man to the rescue! Except today, because … did he tell you how drunk he was last night?

Do not hold forth on your discriminating tastes. We all know you don’t drink to get drunk. We are duly impressed — now shut up. You know the difference between Belvedere and Boone’s? Wow! You saw Sideways? So we can thank you for all of the crappy Pinot Noir soon to flood the American market? Swell!

And while I’m bitter, a few non-alcoholic requests:

Like, stop, like, saying, like — at least not, like, all the time. Yes, I’m going to beat that dead horse until she comes back as the Equine Undead. And then I’m going to beat her some more.

I, um, know we all use verbal fillers, y’know? But please, keep them to a minimum. Especially when class ends at 4:50, and it’s 4:49, and all of your likes are making your salient point about femininity vs. feminism, like, twice as throat-throttlingly excruciating. Y’know? Thank you.

Furthermore, flip-flops are hereby banned until the thermometer tops 50 degrees. Because I said so. They’re not cute, they’re not trendy, and they don’t go with your blindingly purple souvenir sweatshirt and jeans combo. Flip-flops aren’t even comfortable in the cold, unless by comfort, you mean lower-extremity paralysis.

Now, as long as I’m issuing edicts for my own comfort, I demand you all start talking like grown-ups. I’ll give you a topic: You’ve just spent the better part of the month hunting down a missive regarding your husband’s Flexible Spending Account. Don’t know what that is? You will.

If you’re like me, you’ll need a drink when you’re done. Did I tell you how drunk I was last night?

Michelle Bowen-Ziecheck is a Weinberg junior. She can be reached at [email protected]