9:15 p.m. Filling out internship applications in formal wear. Way to go, Harvard.

9:27 p.m. Rosé with vodka-soaked gummy bears. That’s classy, right?

9:41 p.m. Swaying slightly. My alcohol tolerance has decreased since freshman week.

9:43 p.m. “We’re going to the effing party!!” someone shouts.

9:50 p.m. On the T.

9:54 p.m. I can’t wait for a magical night full of sexy times and grinding. Oh, may the light of the disco ball and my dress’s sparkles bedazzling deliver me to a night full of romance and stars.

9:57 p.m. Why do the Krokodiloes wear dumb jackets?

10:06 p.m. “How much is tuition?” asks the guy next to me.

10:12 p.m. We have to walk on an overpass to get to formal. This is an evolutionary rat race: those who don’t get hit by cars on the way to the party get to mate at the end of the night.

10:25 p.m. I didn’t realize all these people were in my class.

10:31 p.m. Christ, I wish I had a flask.

10:42 p.m. Flask.

11:10 p.m. Sense of cosmic completeness. It’s like I BELONG here.

11:12 p.m. No one wants to dance with me.

11:13 p.m. Flask, please.

11:46 p.m. We are alone in the universe and bound for death. How am I supposed to get my grind on when somebody’s pulled the fire alarm? And why is there no Pitbull? There are no sexy times without Pitbull.

11:57 p.m. These are not sexy times.

12:25 a.m. People making out in public are not cool, unless those people are me. I don’t know where my friends have gone.

12:31 a.m. Give up all hope.

12:32 a.m. God, I love Celine Dion.

12:40 a.m. Shuttle.

1:15 a.m. Afterparty?

1:16 a.m. Sophomore booty call?

1:21 a.m. Bed.

11:47 a.m. Hangover.

12:13 p.m. Internship applications in pajamas. Way to go, Harvard.