This is an open letter to anyone who has partied at our house this year. Everyone else in I.V. who has had a rager at their place, you’ll probably understand.

To everyone who came to our house this year:

We’re glad you had a good time. We hope you enjoyed our beer, and rocked out at our parties. I’m sure the vast majority of you are respectable, principled individuals who I have no problem with. Pleasure to meet you all. But for all you little shits who saw it necessary to defile the house, I have some words for you.

To anyone who spilled beer on our floor, or, infinitely worse, on me: I hope a brewery is built near your house, and one day it explodes, and you and your loved ones are instantly drowned in a torrent of foul, beer-smelling liquid.

To anyone who pretended to live here, or was an asshole to anyone who did: We know who lives with us, and you’re not one of them. Trying to act like my best friend once you find out that I live here doesn’t help, moron. I hope you’re framed and convicted of committing a violent bank robbery, leading to you spending the next 10 years in a place where you’re the “house cup” for Bubba the serial molester.

To anyone who changed the music during a party: Your music sucks. What was playing was just fine, thank you, and your drunk-ass playing with all the buttons is not helping anything. I hope you are run over by the tour bus of your favorite musician.

To whoever slashed a few of our car tires at the beginning of the year: I hope the next time you’re driving in a mountainous area, all four of your tires spontaneously explode, sending you careening into a deep canyon, where, after foolishly drinking your own urine for three days, you die of blood poisoning.

To anyone who puked anywhere that wasn’t a toilet: If you’re gonna spew, spew in the big porcelain thing, dumbass. I understand you’re throwing up your guts because you’re really wasted. Happens to the best of us. What is not acceptable is making other people deal with it. To anyone who yakked this year: In the unlikely event you find someone that will marry you, I hope at your wedding service everyone gets a severe case of food poisoning, and throws up all over your beautiful ceremony.

To whoever has my camera: I hope you use the camera to take photos of yourself with the prisoners you tortured in an Iraqi prison, and that the photos get published in an international scandal, after which you get sentenced to 10 years in a military prison.

To anyone who brought sketchy people to the house: Where do you find these rejects? Who comes to a party with eight guys in hoodies that just stand in the corner looking shady? Leave your methadone clinic pals at your place. I hope your house is robbed by heroin addicts, then crystal meth addicts, and finally robbed a third time by the police.

To whoever took the PS2 and Xbox: This one’s personal, buddy. Those things sat in the living room for almost the entire year before they were taken from us. I spent hours on that Xbox. All my work, lost to some douche bag. I sacrificed my GPA for that fucking plastic box, and you took it. All so that you and your jack-off friends can sit around playing “I Have a Tiny Dick 3,” or whatever lame-ass game you play. I hope you wake up in the middle of the night to an intense burning sensation on your skin, and you discover under your sheets 10,000 fire ants feverishly burrowing a nest in your pubes.

And a few random bits: To anyone we hit with water balloons, we’re sorry. We know it was childish and immature. But you have to understand, for us, it was hilarious. Also, to anyone who lost something at our house – hats, shirts, phones, cameras, skateboards, etc. Thank you. We could have started our own thrift store with all the stuff you left here. Lastly, to the guy that came to our house the morning after a party to apologize for being a drunk asshole the night before, and then threw money on a keg: That was pretty cool, man.

David Fuad is a junior law and society and psychology major.