•Bathroom strategizing—22 percent: Our finicky halogen had to be bullied, cajoled and finally finessed into staying on for the duration of a bathroom visit. Five or six quick flicks then a gentle flick and you’re not stuck in the dark feeling for which toothbrush is yours with this hand while trying to keep your towel from falling into the beer-bottle filled, dust bunny-turned-buffalo and empty conditioner bottle corner with that hand.

•The chase—20 percent: The flirtatious laugh over a cup of peppermint tea, the “accidental” arm brush in section. Looking for more than a dance-floor grind but less than a mortgage and talks of future children, I finally concentrated on the chase my junior year…with absolutely no success, of course. No, my boy toys were named Ben and Jerry, and they knew how to give me all the drippy-slippy, this-chunk-is-such-a-hunk, chocolate-covered sexual healing I needed.

•Whining about not being 21—29 percent: (monologue delivered while very drunk) “This country is so stupid because it limits the innate freedoms of rational people who it can then force to do other things like fight and vote and go to school and stuff. I’m so sick of not being able to decide when and where I get trashed and stuff. Yeah, this sucks.”

•Whining about not going out though 21—29 percent: (monologue given in a hushed whisper in Lamont) “Yeah, this school is so stupid because it limits the innate drives of fun-loving young adults who it can then force to study and care about grades and compete and stuff. I’m so sick of not being able to party on the weekends and stuff. Yeah, this sucks.”

Senior Year

•Worry—50 percent: I couldn’t tell you the first thing about Goldman Sachs, the LSAT or resume stuffing. All I keep thinking about is how I’m going to deliver my lines: “Yes, you can super-size your drink. Would you like fries with that?”

•Reflection—50 percent: Where did the time go, do you remember the time we…

Oh dear, it seems that a large rabid T-Rex named “thesis” has eaten my senior-year pie, dripping warm cherry filling all over my new winter white corduroys! “Shoot him! Shoot him!” I cry to no avail. The beast, unsatisfied with having eaten my pie, moves on to its next victim with that “no summa for you” grimace and “overdue library book fine” growl.

Antoinette C. Nwandu ’02 is an English concentrator in Cabot House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.