First Things First

The first words of advice I heard upon arriving at Harvard were, "Don't comp The Crimson." Like a lot of other first-years, I foolishly ignored this sage advice. Believe me, I paid for my folly.

Oh, comping The Crimson doesn't look so bad at first--just eight weeks of diligent work and then you can write as often or as infrequently as you like!

Don't believe it.

Like other psychoactive drugs, The Crimson sucks the unwary into a degenerate spiral of self-destructive behavior. The similarity is uncanny: You start out writing for The Crimson because it's cool, because your friends are doing it and because you get a kick out of it.

Pretty soon, you find that you're doing a lot more of it and getting a lot less satisfaction. Your friends, teachers and parents begin to notice the classic symptoms of abuse: apathy about school, a sudden drop in grades, hanging out with a different crowd, the paraphernalia of your habit left lying about your room.

After writing my senior thesis in a week and coming a hair's breadth from flunking a Core class (a Core, for God's sake), I was forced to acknowledge my problem and quit cold turkey.

Sure The Crimson's a great college paper. Some say it's the nation's best. Sure Crimson veterans are on the inside track to journalistic prominence. Some say it's because their GPAs are shot and they can't get into law school.

My advice: When you see a poster advertising the Crimson comp next fall, treat it as though it were someone offering you a toke of a fat joint.

Just say...Awww, just say what the fuck.