I’ve never been one to let down my guard at the Crimson.

Whether I pretended to be tough and witty—fooling nobody—or peppy beyond the capabilities of caffeine, there have been few times when my genuine emotions were reflected on my face. In fact, I’m only writing this column instead of my planned Red Sox story because I’m a little drunk.

Over the course of the last four years, there have been countless nights when I asked myself why I bothered going to the building. At first, it seemed logical. I love sports, especially the Red Sox. I loved writing. I looked at The Crimson one morning, and I saw a column about the Sox written by a man who would become my editor. Why not?

When I began writing, my life was in a bizarre state. The first real death in my life had occurred just weeks prior, and I still lived in a haze that resided between the real world and memories of the night my grandfather died. I hadn’t been able to really leave my room for a couple weeks, struck every time by remembrance. When I did leave my room, I thought of the night I ran after a cab to take me to the hospital. Memories were everywhere.

The nights at the Grille and flirtation floated amid hours spent in my room, waiting for something to break the haze. A friend of mine broke it, and he knows who he is. Convinced that it would distract me from my collapse, he brought me to a sports meeting. Surrounded by boys, I felt more comfortable in my loneliness, and somehow I had picked up a story before I left the building.

I’m not sure what happened from there. I went from an awful article about men’s basketball, to executive, to sports chair. A hobby became a profession, and then my life. My friends asked where I was going, and the answer was always the same: The Crimson. How do you know you’re entering a passion? When can you be sure it’s the right one?

I guess I was sure when I gave up everything else—school, boys, dreams of medical school. All were blanketed by my Crimson responsibilities.

There are two sides to my recollections. First, I am happy and dancing, hyper in the wee hours of the morning as I try to finish the page or an article. I love sports. I love what I’m doing and the people I’m with.

Second, I am leaving my roommates and friends for work. I have problem sets and papers that will wait. I am exhausted, but what else am I to do? This is an obligation.

How do you decide to make a hobby a profession? Sports was my favorite activity. I did sit-ups to “SportsCenter” every night during high school. I watched both showings of “Baseball Tonight.”

Now, my boyfriend urges me to talk about baseball and I change the subject. I’m beginning to think I made the wrong choice. Let me take this back a notch.

I am one of the biggest screw-ups in Crimson history. Seriously, I’m in the history lecture. You should comp just to hear why.

Here’s a hint—it’s about a women’s lacrosse article I wrote off of a press release that was actually about a game from the previous year. I’ll leave the details for you to unearth.

Needless to say, it was “the worst thing ever.” The day after the article was published, when the phone calls and e-mails began—they still come in from time to time—I remember lying on the futon in my common room. I didn’t even want my roommate to come in. I was more embarrassed than I’d ever been. It seems like such a mediocre mistake now, but at the time it enveloped my entire life.

The managing editor called my phone and left a cruel message, heard first by my roommate, compounding my humiliation. I had a math test that day. Failed it. It was also my birthday.