The Rev. Peter J. Gomes eyed the scorpion bowl in front of him, stuck the foot-long straw between his lips, sipped a bit of the potent punch, paused and then pronounced, “It tastes like orange juice!” While the Plummer Professor of Christian Morals chowed down on chicken fried rice and drank deeply from the Kong’s “communal cup,” I, along with my classmates in Religion 1513, observed in awe.

This sort of scene does not happen. But, two weeks ago, it did—at Harvard.

Freshman year, the first thing that shocked me about this school was how normal everything was. People looked normal. They dressed normally. They talked about normal things. About a month later, I stumbled across the second surprise: the normalcy is all an act. Behind the facade is real Harvard, or, more accurately, surreal Harvard.

Armed with my notebook, pen and press pass, I have spent the past four years exploring Harvard College. And I am truly weirded out. I’ve talked to folks who wear shorts all winter long, a professor who spends the half an hour prior to each lecture prepping “to get hyped up and get the adrenaline pumping,” two students who hope to open a restaurant that will serve only pudding, a guy who actually framed his “suitable-for-framing” Harvard acceptance certificate, and quite a few members of the Lampoon, a semi-secret Sorrento Square social organization which used to occasionally publish a so-called humor magazine.

Even when I was off duty, I couldn’t help but stumble into the realm of the absurd. One time I found myself shin-deep in water at a pool party in Lowell House (the absence of a pool made it more interesting than it sounds). On a date, an applied math concentrator proudly informed me that he was “pre-money.” Neil Rudenstine ate me twice—in a comic strip. I became the second Jewish member of the Filipino Dance Troupe. I took part in a voodoo ritual on the middle of the football field. Once I even enrolled in Ec 10.

I don’t have any scientific proof to back this claim up, but I believe the source of much of this weirdness is widespread insanity. A friend and I had a running joke junior year that everyone we knew was crazy, except for the two of us. Then one day, we were talking and he said, “Actually, it’s just you,” and proceeded to tell me he was having a nervous breakdown.

Honestly, I don’t think I’m any less odd than the average member of the student body. Considering how much surrealism I’ve encountered, I’m probably more, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. For the most part, Harvard students channel their eccentricities in productive ways. People here are impassioned, adventurous and often willing to do things that aren’t so normal. That’s what makes Harvard amazing.

But now, as my packed schedule of drinking and dancing indicates, the end is near. What exactly makes the future terrifying escaped me for some time. After hours of deep contemplation, I’ve figured it out. I’m scared of being bored.

After graduation, I’ll start working 9 to 5 in an office. I’ll get an apartment. I’ll probably watch cable a lot. It sounds dreadful—although not as bad as the stuff that people will be doing a few years later, like marriage and long-term employment and children. Granted, to a 21-year-old all of these things seem pretty weird too, but as the years pass, I suspect that will change.

To combat my fears, I’ve made a pact with myself to have an exciting adult existence. I’m not exactly sure what this entails, but I’m open to just about anything. Maybe I’ll bartend on weekends and drive a motorcycle. Or, maybe I’ll take up yoga and lead wilderness adventures. And of course, modeling is always another viable option.

At Harvard, I got my feet wet—especially at that Lowell party—in appreciating quirkiness. I may be graduating, but I’m not ready to dry off.

I refuse to enter the real world. I’m heading for the surreal one.

Victoria C. Hallett ’02, a history concentrator in Winthrop House, was a magazine chair of The Crimson in 2001.