It’s Saturday night and instead of your normal activity of watching the entire first season of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and getting crumbs of tortilla chips all over your bed, your friend drags you to a house party, otherwise known as booze-induced hell. At first, when you descend down the steps, which look questionable at holding your weight, you think that the pipes from the ceiling are leaking.  I’m so glad I don’t have their plumbing, you think.   You slowly realize that the pipes are not leaking, but raining co-ed sweat in the most disgusting condensation phenomenon you can imagine. You decide to make the voyage to go get beer, scared by the thought of handling this experience under the pain of sobriety. The people that you see around you on your way to the keg, which is more packed than a Saharan watering hole, are a variety of different breeds of house partier. There are the girls who dance like they just escaped from an oppressive Catholic high school. There are the guys who just sway back and forth because they are too drunk to actually dance, spilling beer on everyone in their vicinity. No matter what gender you are, you must, of course, ward off the handsy, equal-opportunity gropers who flock to house parties like disaffected youths to a Panic at the Disco! concert.   There is no courtship at these parties. There is, however, potential for an over-the-shoulder handshake after someone begins to dance with you without any sort of invitation. There is also the possibility that you will never learn this mystery dancer’s name. You will of course, finally, meet those of your kind, the people who don’t want to be at a house party. Surprisingly, these creatures lurking in a corner, typing angrily on their iPhone, are even less fun than the other inhabitants of the basement. Eventually, you drag your friend from the house, who is protesting “but he/she seemed really nice,” and head home. You are covered in other people’s sweat, beer and shame.   You have successfully attended a house party.