Like most out-of-the-area Chico State students, one of my top concerns moving to Chico was finding a place to live before the start of my first semester.

I stressed about the price of rent, number and personalities of roommates, quality of home and safety of location. I don’t enjoy sleeping with a baseball bat.

However, I got lucky with a capital L. With the help of financially-savvy parents and a golden opportunity that screamed “If you don’t take me right now, you’re an idiot,” I became a legitimate homeowner in April 2012.

How could I sum up in one word how I felt about owning a piece of property? Proud.

It was a major step in finalizing my adulthood. I couldn’t wait to furnish, decorate and, most importantly, live by myself.

In the spirit of celebrating the first night alone in my very own house, I got drunk. Really drunk. The kind of drunk when you can no longer feel your face.

When I drank that much alcohol in my early 20’s, you better had battened down the hatches and found a safe place to hide, because Hurricane Amanda was about wreak havoc.

I don’t remember much of that first night, but I certainly remember the morning after. I woke up on my bathroom floor, wearing one shoe but no pants and was pretty sure I had vomit in my hair.

At least I was hoping it was just vomit. After I peeled myself off the bathroom mat and crawled into the living room, I was faced with the hurricane’s aftermath.

Broken glass, knocked over chairs, random papers and Cheerios were strewn about the floor. Suddenly, a hazy memory of me dancing recklessly to Miley Cyrus (don’t judge) came to mind.

The worst of it was the giant hole in the drywall that had been made from me standing on a chair (for some mysterious reason) and predictably falling over.

I was devastated that I marred something I was so proud of and worked so hard for. I decided right then and there to give up being a one-woman storm and chill out on the amount of booze I consumed.

Frankly, I couldn’t afford the damage or dignity repairs.

It’s because of that hole (and the money I had to pay to fix it) that I have a mini-panic attack whenever someone suggests I throw a party at my house.

I just envision dozens of unruly people getting sloshed, disregarding any respect for my home or personal belongings and breaking stuff, just like they did when I used to frequent other people’s house parties.

Now, I think people are crazy for throwing them. If I ever did decide to chance it, I would impose a strict you-break-it-you-bought-it policy and maybe require a damage deposit.

That way people would hopefully watch themselves and I wouldn’t have to call the cops on my own party.

Talk about a buzzkill.

Amanda Rhine can be reached at [email protected] or @am_rhine on Twitter.