At night, I lug my personal-sized Quadling Winnebago to The Crimson. I get home around 10:30 or 11 every night.

Where do I eat the two meals guaranteed to me by the all-encompassing Harvard meal plan? Adams House. Why? Because it is closest.

If different houses featured different menus. I would, perhaps, eat somewhere else. Or, at least I would vary my food-intaking locale. But why would I voluntarily schlepp an extra three blocks to eat broccoli cheese pasta while staring up at the Winthrop courtyard?

ADAMSIANS MIGHT LIKE to claim that eating in their house is a privilege. So why should I get to eat in whatever house I please? Because I live in the Quad, dammit. Everyone in Adams House owes me something. Every time I drag my body through the Common--risking frostbite, muggings and yucky mud--I am saving some too comfortable student from Adams House the inconvenience of living far away from campus.

I don't care if the dining hall is overcrowded. I don't care if Adams House residents feel like they are being invaded. So what if we cheery Quadsters or merry Matherites violate the pretentious pseudo-intellectual atmosphere.

If Adamsians don't like it, let them transfer to the Quad where you never have to wait in line. Let them sing and dance and flaunt their 84 layers of clothing on the tables in Cabot--especially when the dining hall is flooded. Let them smoke up a storm and try to set off the smoke detectors in Currier--if they can. Let them redecorate the hotelesque decor at North House to all black. I don't care.

Just don't make me walk another step for the Sandwich Bar.