How a Real Harvard Student Parties

Friday Night:

I start off Friday night right: with a two hour phone call to my mom. I am fishing for sympathy, perhaps a care package or two, but when I tell her I am too stressed to binge drink this weekend I get nothing. “Good” she says, “go study.”

Taking her advice, I start on my government readings.

One hour later I am at a Highlighter party. I have no idea how I ended up there and no idea where to stash my backpack—I would hate for someone to steal my government readings, or my laptop.

One kid compliments my dress. The second tries to put highlighter “black light” goo on it. I slap him away: It’s dry-clean only.

The kid who complimented my dress comes up to me and tries to say something witty, “Wow we are running into each other a lot tonight.”

I am unimpressed and preoccupied by the fear that there is goo on my dress.

He starts to introduce himself, “My name is-”

I walk away. I am too sober for this.

I go back home and finish reading The Federalist Papers. That Madison has a way with words.

Saturday Night:

Hearing rumors of another highlighter party I promise my mother that I am going to lock myself in my room and study.

I’m pretty faithful to my word until about 11 p.m., when a 10 minute study break transforms into me lying about my nationality at an international party. The good news is that I remembered to leave my backpack at home; the bad news is that my Canadian accent sounds like a pirate’s and no one believes that I am from British Colombia.

One kid, potentially an actual Canadian, asks me to dance. I ask him if he is a freshman. He says, “yes,” so I say “no.”

I am too sober for this.

I go for a drink, but instead the bartender lets me pocket a Smirnoff nip for later. Success! I take my drink and head to my highlighter party. I spend the wee hours of Sunday morning reviewing my seismic imaging notes for my environmental science class.