When I was a sophomore I lived in a quad in my sorority house. That meant 4 girls, 45 pairs of jeans and over 100 pairs of shoes stuffed into a very tiny space. With bunk beds. The close quarters were an issue when any sort of studying had to get done (“Can’t you wait until after 90210 is over to start that paper?!”) or heavy drinking was going down (“Dude, there is not enough room in here for you to do the worm…”) but we made it work most of the time.

And then we had a date party.

For those of you who don’t know, a sorority date party consists of asking guys to join you at a bar where everyone gets very, very drunk. Kind of like any other night of the week but with dresses and a photographer.

Anyways, needless to say, my roommates and I got quite intoxicated. Upon returning to the sorority house, everyone proceeded to leave their men outside and completely pass out fully clothed. I was pretty much dead to the world when I suddenly woke up out of my sleep; something smelled really bad. It took me awhile to figure out where I was, why I was still wearing heels, and why there was a slice of pizza in my hand, but when I finally came to I realized that my roommate (whose bottom bunk was a mere 4 inches away from mine) was also sniffing the air with a not-so-happy look on her face.

“Dude, what is that smell?” she asked me, sniffing the air like a puppy in heat. I began looking around the room, trying to figure out what was going on. Considering the small size of my living quarters, it took only a second to find the culprit: at 5:30 in the morning, wearing a beautiful black BCBG dress, my roommate was squatting over the bottom drawer (MY DRAWER!) of the dresser…having a bowel movement.

“SUSIE*!!” I screamed. She looked up at me. “What the hell are you doing in my underwear drawer!?”

“What?” She responded, confused. “Why are you in the bathroom stall with me?”

“You are not in the bathroom, you moron, you are in our bedroom…taking a crap in my underwear drawer!” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up all over myself. A moment later, I was ready to do all three.

Susie finally looked around and realized what she was doing.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it.” Susie stood up, pulled up her underwear, fixed her hair in the mirror and started to clean up her mess. It was a noble thing to do (and that girl better clean up that sh*t), but Susie was still quite drunk and a little wobbly on her feet. She bent down, gathered whatever was in the drawer and walked towards the communal bathroom in the hall…..leaving a trail of poo poo along the wall as she went. It was like Hansel and Gretel’s trail. Only grosser.

I couldn’t help but scream. And kick. And cry. And throw up a little in my mouth.

Soon the entire sorority was awake and screaming along with me. Eventually our house mother showed up, shooed us all out to a neighboring house to get some sleep and closed down our house for some major Clorox action. Upon returning, my room became a lovely, spacious triple and Susie got a single.

Was it fair that she got a single to herself? No, but no one wanted to live with the pooper.

WTF? So you can sleep with Edward??

When I was waiting outside of the Scholastic store in Soho to buy the 7^th Harry Potter book, I saw a reporter from the New York Post who was walking up and down the massive line and interviewing people for a story about the book’s release. I overheard him speaking with one guy who had a lightning bolt scar on his head.

I know what you’re thinking—“All right, it’s kind of odd that an adult man would dress up for the release of a kid’s book, but it’s not totally unheard of. That dude probably wasn’t any weirder than any of the other people in the line.”

Wrong. This nutbar didn’t just draw a lightning bolt on his forehead—as he told the reporter, he had literally carved the scar into his skin with a razor blade.

And to make matters worse, I was ahead of him in line. Yes, I had arrived at the bookstore before the psycho.

So needless to say, I know a thing or two about what happens when fandom gets extreme. Even so, Twihards—people who are obsessed with the Twilight books and movies—take things a step beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. As of Wednesday, at least 2,100 screenings of New Moon, the second movie in the series, were sold out—and those are only the showings measured by MovieTickets.com. There’s also a ton of Twilight merchandise available all over the web, stuff that ranges from normal (t-shirts, posters) to full-on batsh*t crazy (A shower curtain screen-printed with a giant picture of Robert Pattinson’s face. A life size vinyl wall decal of Edward Cullen’s silhouette, accented by the words “Be Safe.” A pair of underwear that’s illustrated with the sexy vamp’s face—inside the crotch).

io9 has a pretty awesome and comprehensive list of these wacky products. But most of the stuff they found comes from Etsy, which means that it’s specially made by individual craftspeople. I find it even more interesting that Hot Topic, the main source for all things Twilight, has almost 200 Twilight-related products for sale on its website. You can buy a duvet cover with Edward’s face on it, or body shimmer designed to make you look just as sparkly as your favorite vampires. You can buy a Twilight New Moon Vampire Girl Cuff, a Volturi Crest necklace, an Edward Charm bracelet (tagline: “Let Edward be the charms around your wrist”), and a Choose Musical Jewelry Box, which plays “Bella’s Lullaby” (whatever that is) and features “a rotating Cullen crest/Wolf tattoo emblem,” to store them in. There’s even Twilight-brand band-aids, for Anne Rice’s sake.

I know that this isn’t exactly an original question, but I have to ask it anyway—what is it about Twilight that makes people go so bonkers that they would actually buy any of this crap? Wouldn’t even superfans be embarrassed to go out in public with an Edward umbrella? Why is Twilight so good at warping people’s—or, to be more specific, girls’—minds and convincing them to spend their money on this kind of garbage? Or that it’s OK to have some guy’s face in the crotch of your undies?!

I get a seriously creepy vibe from all of these products, which matches the feeling I got when I read “Twilight” in an attempt to understand why it’s so popular. I don’t think I’ll ever really get why a story about a girl and the menacing, much-older guy who stalks her is so big. At least Harry Potter has a sense of humor.

Today was an unfortunate day. While perusing the internet, I ran across a teaser of Levi Johnston’s Playgirl magazine photo shoot. My curiosity got the best of me, and to say it killed the cat is an understatement. I think “made the cat look at a whole lot of nasty testicles…and then killed it” is more accurate.

I followed the link to Playgirl.com and was immediately overwhelmed by peen. (Note: I am not including the link here to spare your eyes.) Never have I ever seen so many schlongs in my entire life. All shapes, sizes and pube lengths; it was like my eyes were under attack by penis-shaped daggers.

This experience did more than force me to fight my natural gag reflex/delete the browsing history on the university computer I was using in the computer lab; it got me thinking about the presence of Playgirl at all.

Who in their right mind ever thought this magazine (now strictly online, thank god) was a good idea? Seriously. Do you know a single girl with Playgirl magazines hidden under her mattress? Have you ever sat around with your girlfriends and said, “you know, I really enjoy the sight of a good-looking penis from time to time”? (Ok, I take that back. I’ve probably said that once in my life.) Honestly, give me abs, give me back muscles, and give me a great smile, but keep the package under wraps, please.

Let’s be real, ladies; a flaccid penis is not a pretty thing. I don’t know about you, but I do everything short of remaining celibate (because that’s just unfortunate) to avoid the sight of one at all costs in real life – why would I spent $18.99 a month to load up on those images online?

Personally, the longest I’ve ever looked at a male member was in my anatomy book in high school. And I have to admit I once did extensive research on the uncircumcised penis. Fascinating topic, really. But since then, I’ll take a quick peek, assure myself that there is indeed something dangling down there, shut my eyes and then get to business. I certainly do not get my jollies by perusing photo galleries of men in the nude.

You can only stare at a man’s balls for so long before they start resembling your grandpa.

As far as I’m concerned, Title IX does not need to extend this far. Men can keep their Playboy, I’ll be fine over here with my copy of Cosmo.

The reign of social media lives on as the New Oxford dictionary (“The world’s most trusted dictionary) named ‘unfriend’ the word of the year. Yes, as in: “Some whack-job keeps invited me to play Farmville so I unfriended his lame ass.” Another point for Facebook, and another hit to society’s overall intelligence. To ‘unfriend’ someone may be the ultimate diss on the interwebs, but in reality, Oxford is just verbing a noun.

To make matters worse, other finalists for the word of the year included: sexting, intexticated, tramp stamp and deleb. For those not as in the loop as the New Oxford word of the year panel, deleb is defined as a dead celebrity. I, for one, have never heard the word ‘deleb’ used in everyday conversation, but what do I know? I’m still over here thinking the correct term was to ‘defriend.’ Embarrassing.

While these words are culturally clever and all, I can guarantee word-enthusiasts all over the world are groaning right now. I’m just wondering how long it takes before ‘WTF,’ ‘LOL’ and ‘UR2GR82B4GOT10’ get their moment of glory. Also wondering how long it will take my spell check to realize ‘unfriend’ is legit now. Seriously, what is this proto-language and where do we come up with it?

Every week I make a list. Not a grocery list or a to-do list…or that list, because I don’t really do groceries (there is a reason why they deliver pizza) and to-do lists are totally not my scene (if such a scene even exists) and, unfortunately, I haven’t added to that list in quite awhile.

No, this list is a top ten-style countdown about the hard-hitting issues, like which mash-ups are the best ever or which apps rock my world.

This week I’m focusing on the “click click flash” that consumes your weekend. You go out, someone inevitably breaks out the camera (every 4 minutes) and you start posing like you’re ready for the cover of Nylon. Great idea, but these pictures are going to end up on Facebook for the world to see the next day when you’re sober. Oof. And with today’s technology, you might be even caught in real time.

Who’s guilty?
Actually, who isn’t?

10. Self indulgent “Take one of just meeeee!”

You always think this one is a great idea. I’ll tell you something your friends (especially the one taking this photo) never will: it’s not a good idea. I promise you, it never is.

9. Drinking game picture

Congrats bro, you won a binge drinking game. Super rad!

8. Drunken girl-on-girl makeout

Your boyfriend? Not gonna be thrilled. Ok, so maybe he will, but did you forget that your great Aunt Frances is your FB friend?

7. Mirror Myspace look

Looking good with a giant flash obscuring you. Classic.

6. Obscene gesture… or action.

That’ll help you land your dream job.
Oh, and not looking at the camera does not make this photo look more natural or classy.

5. Passed out with Sharpie in your face

If you have one of these, your friends are jerks. If you have more than one of these, you seriously need help.

4. Drunken Photobooth?

Just, why? Was there really nothing better to do while you were buzzin’?

3. Nonfunctional drunkenness

Another big, fat “why?” How is this attractive? And who was the jerk who took this picture? And freaking sent it to all your friends? But, seriously, why did you decide to lay right there?

2. Pregaming

Since when is drinking in a tiny dorm room scrapbook material?

1. Pouty face, Peace sign

Overplayed.
ENOUGH SAID.

Week after week (after week after week…), CollegeCandy and our pal John bring you some of the weirdest, funniest, and saddest things he hears on his college campus. And we know he’s not the only one who hears this stuff. Join the Overheard revolution! Listen in on some weirdos’ conversations and share them in the comments or send ‘em over. You know there’s a lot of funny things to be heard on your campus, so get to it. We’ll throw them in a future post!

(Two girls in the dining hall.)

Girl 1: God, I am seriously the best wing man ever!

Girl 2: Well, who’s your wing man?

Girl 1: (Pointing to her breasts and shimmying) I’ve got two.

(Man, woman, waiting in the lobby of a hair salon.)

Man (looking in mirror): What do you think? It worked for Wolverine, you know.

Woman: No. It wouldn’t work for you.

Man: It’s … it’s working already.

(Two guys, in a dorm community kitchen.)

Guy 1: What the f—?

Guy 2:  I can’ t cook these. These are like, Russian Nesting Kielbasas or something.

(Guys talking over dinner at the dining hall.)

Guy: I wouldn’t want to kick any girl filled with toffee. She can keep it.

(Guys, girl, talking in a dorm hallway.)

Guy 1: God. So itchy. I hate Beardvember.

Guy 2: I think it’s Novembeard, right?

Guy 3: I’m used to hearing “No Shave November.”

Girl: I always just called it “30 days of pubes.”

(Girl, serving herself food, looking quizzically at the pasta.)

Girl: Who stole the insides of these?

(Two girls and a guy, in the library.)

Girl 1: I wish all the lights were tanning bulbs.

Girl 2: I know! We’d be so tan, we could just pretend it’s summer. No one would know. It would be amazing.

Guy: Yeah, or we’d all burn to a crisp after our eyeballs fall out. It would be like “‘attack of the sick overworked bacon students in the library.”

Girl 1:  Way to bring me down. Debbie friggin’ Downer. Now I want a breakfast sandwich.

Girl 2: Ooh, with bacon?

Guy: I hate you both.

(Girl, on the phone.)

Girl: It’s not that. It’s that I never believe you any more. I don’t … no! I can’t trust you! I just can’t! Listen, I can’t do this right now. Can I hang up and just text you instead?

(Girl and guy, walking past yelling girl on campus thoroughfare.)

Girl 1 (yelling): Who wants some free koofers?

Girl 2: What’s a koofer?

Guy: It’s a sensation you get down in your nethers.

(Two girls, on computers in the library.)

Girl 1: All these guys are such crap.

Girl 2: Yeah, I want to date the good guys. I want the good guys with the right moves.

One weekend, I went to a mixer at one of the best frats at my school. They had a huge party coming up and the only way to avoid waiting on long lines is knowing a brother very well, if you know what I mean.

Four (…or five or six) drinks later, I found myself chatting with a slightly creepy and indisputably not-cute guy who claimed to be roommates with one of the coolest, hottest members his pledge class. I figured he was my “in,” my protection from shivering in a line for two hours while my buzz drifted slowly away. So I turned on the charm, laughed at his jokes, touched his arm.

Yet even in my state of inebriation, my creep-dar started bleeping. Something was off about this kid and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was.  I decided to ask him some questions to verify his so-called brotherhood.  Our conversation:

Me: So, you pledged here two years ago?
PB (Pseudo Brother): Oh yeah, you have no idea. Worst year of my life.
Me: What chapter are you guys?
PB: Oh, we’re the Alpha chapter. Totally.
Me: Really? The Alpha chapter? Wow, that’s impressive. What year were you founded?
PB: 1889, baby! Brothers for life!
Me: What college are you in here?
PB: Oh, you know, the one that starts with a C.
Me: The College of Arts and Sciences, the College of Engineering, the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences…
PB: Yeah, yeah, the last one.
Me: What’s your major?
PB: Business.

And it continued from there.  A number of red flags popped up, including the fact that pledging takes place over only one semester at my school, not a year; all the colleges start with a C, and there is no business major in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences; along with other glaring inconsistencies. However, based on his impressive chapter stats I decided to spend the night with him anyway, images of VIP entry to the upcoming party swimming in my head the entire time.

Early the next morning, I ran to the bathroom and looked him up on Facebook via my Blackberry. To my surprise, he wasn’t mutual friends with any of my friends in his frat. Upon closer inspection, I realized he didn’t have ANY friends at my school, and he wasn’t registered under its network—or any college network! Incredibly skeeved out, I snuck downstairs without waking him up and called a cab.

I sat on a bench (surrounded by empty Natty Light cans) in the fraternity house foyer and waited for my chariot. Looking around I realized I was sitting in the same spot he was sitting in during our conversation the night before, and right in my line of vision was placed a giant plaque that read “Alpha Chapter, Founded 1889.”

So much for impressive chapter stats!

The real kicker? He still texted me about ten times that day, seemingly oblivious that I figured out how creepy he was and ditched him. After I finally answered with a very terse, “Look, I know you don’t go here and I don’t want to see you,” he had the nerve to get mad at ME for “only hooking up with him because I thought he was in a good frat.”

And then he called me a Slore.

I guess I gotta give him some props for pulling that insult out in a serious conversation. Yeah, he’s still the creepiest guy I’ve ever…known, but at least he made me laugh.

[You got a a good "Morning After" story to share? Send it to over and we'll post it (anonymously, of course)! Do it! It can't be worse than crossing borders for booty....]

Ready to see this guy's hockey stick?

Are you getting pumped about Levi Johnston’s upcoming full-frontal spread in Playgirl?

Wait, what’s that? You just threw up in your mouth a little?

Levi might be conventionally attractive, but his status as Bristol Palin’s baby-daddy, Jon Gosselin’s new buddy – Michael Lohan must be green with envy – and an all-around jerk (in response to New York Magazine asking him how he was adjusting to life in the Big Apple, Levi said, “I run this city. It ain’t no thang.” UGH) means that we’re less than excited about the idea of having naked pictures of this asshat plastered all over the internet next week.

After giving the matter some thought, we realized that there are actually only five guys that we’d be even more opposed to seeing in their birthday suits. Read the list if you dare—the thought of these dudes naked might just make you shudder.

We're fine not knowing if his shag carpet matches that dust ruffle on his chin.

Jonah Hill
Don’t get us wrong: Jonah Hill is totally hilarious, whether he’s riffing with his buddies from the Judd Apatow School of Awesome or slumming it in “Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian.” That said, we do not want to see his wang. Ever.

It just feels so wrong..

A Jonas Brother

Seeing any of these three without a regulation skinny tie and a nonthreatening-yet-slightly-edgy pair of pants would just weird us out, no matter how convincingly they croon about wanting to hold a girl’s hand or whatever. It would be like seeing a creepy version of Mickey Mouse wandering through a post-apocalyptic Disney Land.

Thanks to his meggings, we already know what this guy is packing.

Russell Brand

The nasty, matted, greasy hair. The unsettlingly skinny body. The meggings. Russell is a dead ringer for Jack Skellington, and that is so not attractive. Have fun, Katy Perry—then again, maybe you two deserve each other.

Barf. Here comes my $5 footlong...

Perez

No. No. NO.

Does that look like the face of someone with a bangin' bod?

Hugh Hefner

It’s kind of ironic that the guy who started the Playboy empire is the last dude that we’d ever, ever want to see in the buff. The soft-core entrepreneur is 83 years old, which makes him 63 years older than his current “girlfriends,” identical twins Kristina and Karissa Shannon. They might not mind running their hands over his loose wrinkles, but we do. Ew. There aren’t even words to describe how wrong that is.

Made it to the end of this psychologically scarring list? Congratulations—you deserve a prize. Here’s a picture of James Franco looking adorable. You’re welcome.

Ok, so “Superman That Ho” wasn’t the most romantic song of all time, but at least it had a good beat and a fun little dance to go along with it. I expected a lot from Soulja Boy (Tell ‘Em) after that monster hit… and then I heard this (the lyrics are epic).

Did he really collaborate on a song about emoticons? “LOL smiley face”? For serious?

Congratulations, Gucci Mane and Soulja Boy; you have officially beat “Tardy for the Party” for the worst song of all time.

Sometimes you need a glass of wine.

And sometimes – like after you come home from bombing an exam to find an email from your long distance boyfriend saying he “just can’t do it anymore” and you knock a glass of water onto your brand new MacBook – you need a lot more. But something about chugging Two Buck Chuck straight from the bottle is neither classy nor refined, and having to keep pouring glass after glass just slows down the healing process.

Sounds like to need this (big) guy.

A wine glass big enough to hold a full bottle of Boones Farm Strawberry Fields?

I’ll take two, please.