It’s bad enough that the Draw holds as much power over our lives as it does. It decides whether you get sexiled four nights a week, or whether you can pick your peeling feet in privacy without fear of interruption, an embarrassing admonishment by your roommate and a resulting forced and awkward joint trip to the podiatrist. The Draw holds so much authority over our lives that I’m not really sure that “the Draw” is just a complex “algorithm” on a “computer” as we are told. I can’t help but think it’s really a complex quasi-religious, age-old tradition where seasoned housing higher-ups with long white beards gather around a circular mahogany table drinking whiskey sours. By crackling fire-light they debate over which good-hearted, well-meaning scholars deserve a low number and which mean-spirited, dweeby pupils warrant a membership in the six thousand club. Then the housing guru with the longest, whitest beard of all squints and crinkles his brow and then broodingly and definitively assign a precisely deserved number to the case at hand.

But then they post the Draw numbers, and that live-action role-playing, flip-flop-and-sock wearing, Renaissance Fair-going four-eyes, whose social skills are as successful as his last attempt at shaving, gets a seven while you struggle to remember whether you got a 1987 or a 1798. And your conception of the fair and just decisions handed down by an omniscient demi-god is no more. That’s fine, you tell yourself. Your LARPing friend probably needs a balcony, central location and a basketball court for his LOTR re-enactment tapings. All is for the best.

You’re in a class with Larpster McDorkee, and someone asks the prerequisite question of dorm residence. Larpster replies “Xanadu.” The question-asker pauses a few moments, knits his brow, squints, protrudes his bottom lip out a few millimeters, nods his head and “Mmmms,” his voice falling from high to low in just the same way your mom mmed when your dorky little brother told her he found a date for prom. There it was, that moment of immediate approval, that flash of respect for Larpie simply because he lives on the Row.

The housing hierarchy extends beyond even living on or off the Row — perhaps most interesting is the inter-Row house pecking order that is seemingly so well-entrenched in our minds. At first glance, it’s obvious to me why some houses are more desirable than others. Location is important (717 Dolores and Durand being just a little too far for the post-party stumble), rooms are crucial (with better houses like Bob and Xanadu having more two-room doubles) and having few requirements or restrictions is helpful since no one wants to do a Slavic movie presentation during finals week.

But then why is the French House so desirable with its theme requirements and only 14 two-room doubles? Why isn’t Haus Mitt. or Muwekma as fun of a place to live? Is it because once a quarter those Parisians buy cheap wine, hire a campus band and throw a party? Is it because we are all closet Franco-philes who secretly fantasize that a tall, dark and handsome Frenchman will whisper gorgeously-accented sweet nothings into our ears? Maybe they have better food? But I don’t remember getting the campus-wide Inter-Row-House Iron Chef Cook-Off memo letting us all taste and compare a typical meal from each house. Why do we have this strange affection for certain houses on the Row specifically and for the Row in general?

I have frustratingly seen the squint-nod-mmm too many times. Since when did getting a randomly good number make you cool? Since when did living anywhere — Row house, sorority or co-op — automatically make anyone cool? There are the duddliest of duds laughing far too hard at their duddly friends’ poor moves in “Risk: Lord of the Rings” in every row house, and you can chance upon the kindred-liest of kindred spirits that you chance upon while finishing a meal at FloMo dining.

I lived in Twain my sophomore year and am in Bob this year as a senior. Admittedly, a Row house has been a much more fun place to live, with its progressives, Beer-B-Qs and house-sponsored pre-parties. But it’s not more fun because the people cool-o-meter ratings are off the charts. Bob has the same cross section of students, just with more community money to spend on parties and a place to have them.

Although Katie lives in Bob, she still happily picks her feet and plays Lord of the Rings Risk in the privacy of her own room. If you don’t think that’s too gross, e-mail her at kttaylor@stanford.edu