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Beware! I Did Sorority Rush and They Hazed Me Into Solving the Major Ethical Dilemmas of the Century

I decided to rush this semester in pursuit of sisterhood, social validation, and the divine feminine. Upon entering Faculty House in my modestly slutty midi dress and nude heels, I expected to engage in some superficial conversation and harmless gossip with my potential future sisters. Despite being coached by my favorite BamaRush influencers, I was nowhere near prepared for the psychological and philosophical hoops I was forced to jump through at the whim of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

The moment I entered my first party, I knew I’d walked into a trap. We were told to stand in a circle, and one girl explained that our first task was to solve the age-old Trolley Problem. We had two minutes to provide a solution to the group and would then receive feedback. As the time ticked down, I struggled to think of an answer. The atmosphere of fruity body spray blurred my vision and jumbled my thoughts. Sweat beaded at my hairline as the mascara-framed eyes of the sisters bore into the depths of my soul. Let us scrutinize your moral judgement, they taunted. Show us your ethical weaknesses so we can crush them between our perfectly-manicured fingers

A perky blonde to the left of me volunteered to share first. “I would switch the trolley onto the other track so it only kills one person,” she said. “Obviously, this is the standard utilitarian view, but I stand by it.” The other PNMs nodded sagely as the sisters scribbled in their small notebooks. When it was my turn, I stammered something about the implications of participating in the Trolley Problem: “While the Trolley Problem is a deeply unfortunate situation, I would recuse myself from making a decision. I am morally opposed to deciding the fate of others. The trolley would continue on its path without any interference from me.” The room was impressed with my unique take on the dilemma, and someone hummed approvingly. I let out a breath, relieved at having survived the situation.

I rushed to the bathroom when the party ended, splashing my face with cold water as waves of anxiety ebbed through my body. I couldn’t handle the pressure, the scrutiny, the philosophical implications—it was all too much. The blonde from earlier came through the door and smiled sweetly. “I loved your answer, by the way,” she said. “Very refreshing. Also, I heard a little rumor that our next party has something to do with the Stanford Prison Experiment.” With this news, I walked out of Faculty House and never looked back.