t’s a gloomy Wednesday evening when I rush inside Massachusetts Hall, fleeing the drizzle outside. I have just spent over 15 minutes in the cold, light rain for an assignment. I am damp. I am tired. I am quite ready to just lie in bed.

But then, something catches my eye.

On the small corkboard right next to the door — amid the usual collection of HU-Something-Something club flyers — hangs a green poster, precariously clinging to a single clear thumbtack. In the center: an analog clock. Around it: poorly cropped, disembodied heads of smiling students. In even-greener, digital-clock font on top: “The 24 Hour Show.”

Suddenly, my hair is dry.
My energy has returned.
My life has purpose.

But then doubt crept in. Would I be able to withstand 24 hours of pure, unbridled comedy? Was I really up for that endeavor?

My pending problem sets said no, absolutely not.
But 13 hours? I could stand to lose 13 hours.

Before I fully committed, I needed to read the terms and conditions. After all, this could be life altering (for better or for worse). I can’t just sign up for this without knowing what the show’s about.

It was time to speak to the experts:

“I think this was a mistake,” says Jack T. Flynn ’26, co-captain of student improv group and Harvard’s self-proclaimed “Best On-Campus Group Overall If You Judge Holistically,” Three Letter Acronym, about the show.

We’re off to a great start.

The Zeroth Hour

28 hours before the impending 24 Hour show, I’m sitting across from the leadership of Three Letter Acronym. They’re demolishing free donuts while simultaneously spiking my nerves. The afib-inducing group includes: Katie A. Silverman ’27, co-captain; Owen M. GwinnLandry ’27, arts council; Amy G. Morrissey ’28, publicity; and Flynn.

“I’ve heard stories about the 24-hour show since my freshman year,” Flynn says, “but we’ve never actually done it since I’ve been on the troupe.”

Three Letter Acronym hosted the event annually — until six years ago when they “realized that was a bad idea,” Silverman says, and the tradition vanished.

“I think that there’s a certain beauty in not preparing for things,” says Morrissey.

I’m beginning to suspect I signed up for a social experiment.

“I think when you’re faced with a task of endurance that long, sometimes the best method is to just not change anything about your routine,” Morrissey continues.

I definitely signed up for a social experiment.

As the group laughs, blissfully unafraid of the hours ahead, I too get swept up in their confidence. After all, it’s just 13 hours of a 24-hour show. What’s the worst that could happen?

The First Hours (7:55 p.m. - 10 p.m.)

I arrive five minutes before curtain with a friend I drag inside with the vague promise that “it’ll be funny.” The Signet is packed. Every chair is claimed, so we settle for the top of a table in the back.

The lights dim.

Flynn, who admits that he didn’t sleep beforehand, dashes onstage to roaring applause. The rest of TLA barrels behind him. He proclaims that TLA “will not sleep, will not eat, and will not urinate for the entirety of 24 hours.”

Behind him, somebody holds up a bucket labeled “PEE.”

My friend shoots me a look.
I avoid eye contact.

Jokes aside, all donations from the 24-Hour Show were going to St. Francis House, a homeless shelter in Boston. So the carnage isn’t just for giggles.

We are told to place bets on which cast member would be in the best condition in the next 24 hours. I chose Morrissey, whose relaxed look radiates confidence. (Or is it delusion?)

Jokes fly, ranging from stories about the crayon industry to the deeply moving love story of two former Junior League baseball players, delivered in the structure of a Harold, the form of improv comedy that TLA is known for. Without getting too deep in the weeds, Harolds typically begin with a “fun idea-generating opening” that includes audience participation and open brainstorming among several members. Then, the performers work to weave together several plotlines into one coherent story, all completely improvised. I audibly gasp when it ends. I wasn’t expecting to become emotionally invested in fictional minor-league athletes tonight, but here we are.

The first hour ends with “Sex with me.” Anything can be sexual if you try hard enough. My favorite is: “Sex with me is like Dunkin’' Donuts, America runs on it (ba dum tss).”

One hour down, twenty-three to go!

As my friend waves me goodnight, I realize I didn’t grab coffee beforehand. Regardless, from RuPaul’s Drag-Racing burgers to the bullying of President Calvin Coolidge (#JusticeForCalvin), the second hour is just as energetic as the first.

By 10 p.m., however, it’s time for my first break. While slipping out, I notice some of the cast members beginning to yawn. I wonder what state I will find them in after two hours.

I don’t wonder for long, however, because I have a problem set waiting for me.

The Onset of Delirium (11:55 p.m - 2 a.m.)

Who comes to a comedy show at midnight?

A lot of people, actually.

Sitting once again on top of a table, I find the house is more packed than before. One girl is perched right in front of me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I blocking your view?”
“Oh no, you’re good.”
“Okay, but please tell me if I am.”
“Will do.”
“No, seriously, tell me.”
“I will.”
“Like literally call me a —” (she suggests a word I’m not sure I can publish.)

She seems nice.

By this point, five hours of nonstop improv are starting to take a toll on the cast. Subtle tremors, a hiccup here, a shaking shoulder there. Nothing that derails the scenes, but noticeable.

At 1 a.m., On Thin Ice joins the stage. Jean-Jacques and the Eiffel Tower, God betting on the Astros, TLA’s Harold routines reimagined — just an inspired, dizzying parade of absurdity. My favorite: “Sex with me is like a menu; I’ll have what she’s having.” I laugh, I groan, a little unsure if I am laughing at or with them. Possibly both.

By 2 a.m., I am barely holding it together. My problem set remains unfinished, yet I refuse to rest. I write “PEE” instead of “pi” on my paper and stare blankly at it for a while. I slip once more into the dead of night, teetering between focus and delirium.

A Psychedelic Experience (4 a.m. - 6 a.m.)

At this point, you could read the Merriam-Webster dictionary to me and I would laugh.

Something happens in the two hour interval I am gone, because when I return, the air is different. By 3:55 a.m., the once-raging crowd had vanished. The few people left have migrated upwards, so I get to sit in a chair for once.

The troupe moves to improv games to keep momentum, but even games like Survivor (where the audience decides which actor to vote off each scene) cannot stop the wear and tear of nine hours of improv. Movements onstage become less precise. Yawning becomes commonplace.

And I?

I am laughing my head off. Nothing particularly interesting is happening onstage. During a transition period, I couldn’t contain my giggles.

But then at 5 a.m., the 10th Harold — double digits! — is hit, and it is spectacular. With only four people left in the crowd (really three, because someone is asleep on the couch), I have an ethereal experience watching a 6-foot-something actor transform into an 8-year-old hell-child with an insane addiction to whole milk. The ending scene is devoid of plot as he is left on all fours, barking.

As the scene finishes, he says, “I’m so delicious right now.” My God.

With an acoustic version of the “Jurassic” Park theme playing in the background, the clock strikes six. I stumble out of the Signet while they enter their dinosaur hour.

By now, the sun is beginning to rise and it takes me longer than expected to get into my dorm as I try to use my metal key to open a swipe-card access door.

Reality, at this hour, feels negotiable.

Three hours at a comedy show (8 a.m. - 11 a.m.)

Instead of fighting my problem set (a losing battle), I decide I need a refresher. I take a nice shower, brush my teeth, and put on some comfortable clothes. I feel the drowsiness leaving my body. When I return to the Signet, I feel confident that I am physically and mentally there.

Then one of the actors, speaks to me:

“I like your ieshbampalambada.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I like your blah la la.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just like your shirt.”
“Oh, thanks!”

At least I am physically there.

A few of my favorite scenes from this hour are Lavender Boy — a child who wears only a baseball cap, a singular glove, underwear, and one sock — and the star crossed love story of an unregulated-rollercoaster designer and a girl who became paraplegic due to his hijinks.

By now, it is just me and Celina E. Varchausky ’28 left in the audience. Varchausky has stayed for the full 12 hours.

“I think I kind of a live by a philosophy that, above all else, I commit to the bit,” Varchausky says.

I am completely amazed by her persistence.

Lost File (2 p.m. - 4 p.m.)

I cannot for the life of me remember what happened from 1:55 p.m. - 3:05 p.m.

Looking back at my mid-show notes, I found my finger had been pressing the “h” key indefinitely.

I am only snapped out of my daze after a loud yelp onstage. The singing Harolds are back.

I am not the only person completely out of it. I can see other TLA members slowly becoming one with the furniture in the back. I think we’re all tired at this point.

From 3:05 p.m. onward, nothing very notable occurs.

I really wish I had more to say, other than the addition of the guitar was brilliant and that TLA members are multitalented. My second to last interval is a blur.

The Final Hours (6 p.m. - 8 p.m.)

I am determined to see this through to the end.

That god-forsaken problem set is still sneering at me in my dorm, and I become more erratic with every passing second. I have aged three years in 11 hours.

For the final leg, my friend from the first hour returns. At 6 p.m., the house is still relatively empty, so we sit in the front. This hour is relatively normal — well, as normal as 22 hours of improv goes, but you get the point.

I am slowly swaying side to side and my friend shoots me another look.

It is just best to not engage.

By 7 p.m., the once-small crowd triples in size as we enter the 23rd and final hour. TLA revisits many bits from the first hour, such as a cat interviewing for Goldman Sachs.

The competition for best person in the 24-hours has five people in the running: Flynn, Morrissey, GwinnLandry, Weston B. Fox ’28, and Hudson S. Brown ’28. A $25 Jefe’s gift card is on the line.

With the final Harold inspired by the word “Marathon,” the audience votes Brown as the winner.

I give them all a standing ovation at the end. 24 hours is no small feat, and I am malfunctioning at a rookie 13 (Granted I did not sleep in any of my break intervals but…eh.)

On the night walk back to my dorm, I am skipping and laughing at everything that passes by. My friend has to latch on to me to stop me from going straight into traffic. In raising $374 dollars for St. Francis House, TLA has changed lives for the better — including my own. After the show, I find that my love of theater is slowly being rekindled.

“It’s been so long since something like this has existed, and I fear we may have set a dangerous precedent,” GwinnLandry says. “But I’m really excited for the future.”

All I can really say is, what fun. Three Letter Acronym now has a new fan.

Also, if you’re wondering, I got an A on that problem set (hell yeah).

—Magazine writer Valerie I. Ogboi can be reached at [email protected]