One of the creeping signs of adulthood (other than that your year of birth slides gradually farther and farther out of reach on online forms) is the increasingly persistent worry that you missed orientation.
That was the whole point of coming to Harvard: to meet all these interesting great talented people who were going to do great things. But when these Great Things go from theory to practice, it hits you in the vitals.
Someone moved the stakes higher. At college, if you awoke with the kind of headache usually reserved for Greek gods who were using their crania to give birth to other Greek gods, you did not really have to get up and go anywhere. In life, you do.
I would like to say that I regret nothing of the past four years. Actually, I do regret one thing: not having donated one of my eggs to those people who advertise in The Crimson, because, hey, that’s serious money.
I remember one party at the Delphic where someone offered me punch, and I woke up several weeks later in Equatorial Guinea with a great tan, surrounded by fun individuals who were only kind of involved in human trafficking.
Maybe, before leaping into bed, everyone should sit down and fill out comprehensive forms that cover our opinions on politics, philosophy, free-range chicken, and that one episode of Sex and the City where Samantha confronts those transvestites.