“The Truth About Final Clubs”

November 10, 2005

There’s a lot of reverse classism going on these days. It would be so much easier if I were, um, like tan—and not from my days sunning myself in San Troupes!

It’s real fucking rough being a wealthy, white man at Harvard. Like, everyone’s so jealous. These leftover betties haven’t managed to leave feminism in the 1970s. I’m not asking them to wear an apron. I’m granting them the opportunity to wear a linen apron in my house in Corfu, just for show. While wearing heels. “Oooo, bend over to pick up that cashmere scarf, baby.” And the only girls who want to get in my pants, er, wallet, er pants, are the ones who already have linen aprons. Who is to know what to do?!

Whatever, sick d-bag. You may think that Final Clubs are merely multi-million dollar mansions for Harvard’s wealthy social elite. Wrong! They’re multi-million dollar mansions for Harvard’s wealthy social elite—plus beer and bitches!

La la la la la....I need to do reading. Fuck—no I don’t. Where’s my dealer? Whatever. I may have gotten cut from the Delphic—but I still nail bitches at the Fox!

“When We’re Over the Hill”

March 10, 2005

In about a year, or, like, a few months, we’re going to graduate, and we’re going to have get jobs. And we’re going to die.

It’s bizarre and confusing and wholly intimidating to imagine where we will be when we’re dead. “We” means the Class of 2006, the current juniors. More specifically, to me, “we” means my roommates.

These are the girls that I will see grow old. These are the girls I will stand by no matter what happens, until they contract terminal cancer.

Here are some predictions I’ve made about how they will turn out, in the end.
Wherever she dies, or whatever she’s doing when she dies, Rosa D. Rosa ’06 will be singing.
...
And as for me, I hope I die old. Actually, I hope that my roommates and I die all together, holding hands, on Junior Parents Weekend, which we’ll all be attending in order to visit our children, who will all be alive.

“Masturbate More”

February 12, 2004

Sex! Sex! Sex! With myself!

What? Do you have a problem? Why are you reading this? God, that is so like you men. Always looking at me and paying attention to me and reading my articles. Just because I like to describe my private sexual behavior in a major campus publication doesn’t mean I want you to listen, okay?
A girl’s sexuality is a totally private thing. If you don’t respect that, you might as well go join that final club, “I Hate Women.”

The last time I masturbated it was half-past ten and the time was ripe for self-exploration. There was just one problem: all of these boys kept telling me not to masturbate.

“Stop,” they said. “Don’t do that,” they said.

“What’s your problem, misogynist?” I said. “You don’t think women should have the right to vote?”

This is a story dedicated to the thousands of Harvard women who don’t even know they have vaginas. I hate to tell you this, but most Harvard women are not like me. To be honest, I’m probably one of the top-ten hippest Harvard women I know. Do you have any idea how many orgasms I’ve had in the last ten minutes? Multiple.

“Heard it Through the Fire Door”

November 3, 2005

Through the fire door, we come to know our neighbors’ sleep schedules, the ups and downs of their love lives, their academic successes and failures, and, sometimes, their penis size. Dining hall tables abound with tales of accidentally having sex with your fire doormate.

But this practical cohabitation brings about a catalog of ethical puzzles. What is the proper protocol in such circumstances? Do these pajama pants make me look fat? How much does a double-bolt lock cost?

My advice? Establishing a relationship with the person through the fire door makes the inevitable eavesdropping a little less absurd, so feel free to sleep with him again. Since we started sleeping together, accidentally overhearing my fire door boyfriend’s bad grades on math quizzes has gotten a whole lot less awkward.

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