If you were out on 16th Street and Clinch Avenue Friday night, you were probably at my house.

If you came in through the back, were questioned by a bouncer holding a guest list, waited sardine style for crappy keg beer and/or shook your tail feathers to a jamming band, you were most definitely at my house.

I hope you had a blast – I know I did.

Having a blast is only the halfway point in a long experience for a hostess like myself.

I'll kindly take you through the process.

On the Wednesday before the party, our performer and coordinator Ben Gaines came over to discuss details and logistics. He informed us that we needed to put a guest list together. What's cooler than being on a guest list? Making one.

He explained his ambitions to us. This, he said, was going to be more than a birthday party; it would be a fundraiser.

Everyone whose name was not on the list would pay $5 for three kegs, a show and charity.

Ben Gaines and his band, The Stoop Kids, support Camp Koinonia, an organization that gives kids with disabilities enriching camping experiences. After the party's conclusion, they would give half of the profit from the party to the charity.

Friday rolled around. Naps were had, valuables hidden, rooms cleaned, furniture moved. Chairs, coffee tables and lamps were stuffed into this closet or that closet and the couch placed strategically in the stairwell. Kegs were set on ice under piles of towels hours before. The band came in and out—check check check.

Night falls. Keg is tapped. Ladies dressing, changing outfits. Last minute trashcans here and there, not that anyone will use them.

I stayed outside with Ben for the first shift of bouncer duty – it was awkward. We dealt with people who were not on the list that should have been; people who I didn't know claiming they were with so-and-so; people that didn't want to pay $5. Ben always insisted that they pay.

Five dollars is nothing compared to the price my house and my roomies paid.

The party must go on.

Two boys trying to fight in the dance room gave me the birdy when I told them to cool it.

A different guy slapped my butt three times, after I told him it was rude the first time and that he was in my stairwell.

I had a conversation with a territorial male in my room. I told him he was not allowed in my room alone. I found him an hour later in my room—alone. He had lit candles in my room and was enjoying the feng shui I had created.

Halfway through the cops came and told us to turn it down; we continued to dance.

In the morning, I found that my favorite white wooden rocking chair was dismantled into seven pieces tossed in the neighbors yard. Fires had been started in our driveway. Pictures and decorations had been torn down.

Party guests have a sense of entitlement.

I do not feel like all of the people at my house shared this sense of pride, but as college party hoppers, we must respect the peoples houses we are in.

I didn't make any money from this party, but I lost much more.

I lost my Saturday to cleaning trash, putting the pieces of our house back together and washing off the filmy layer of beer covering our whole house. I lost my rocking chair. I lost at least some form of dignity.

But we could have lost much more. Had the cops decided to take more serious action, I could be looking at mad money and years in legal documents.

This is risk you cash in to host a Fort Knox party.

So when people throwing a party tell you to cool it or demand the next refill at the keg, these demands should be respected.

May you keep this in mind next time you attend a friend's party, and even more so when you attend a friend of a friend's party.

Julie Mrozinski is a junior in English. She can be reached at jmrozins@utk.edu.