With these thoughts, I wandered into my dorm. There was a surprise birthday going on for one of my entryway-mates. The atmosphere took the edge off of things. After a few minutes of talking to people, I felt more normal again. We talked about classes and things going on over the weekend—it didn’t take long to turn my attention back to this coast.

During the party, I realized something: We may not have Full Moon, but we show our full moons at primal scream. We don’t have Tahoe, but our closest city is much easier to reach. We don’t have California sun, but we do have Yard snowball fights.

Of course, all these comparisons are arbitrary. It’s the same with comparing all schools. I don’t know who I would have met at Stanford. I don’t know what my teachers would have been like. I don’t know what surprise birthdays I would celebrate.

But I do know where I am now. And that’s all I need for now, rather an unrealistic picture of where could have been.

So between any two schools—whether it be Stanford and Harvard; Harvard and BU; or Stanford and Moorpark Community College—comparisons are something best left for the movies.

Except for Yale. Compared to Harvard, Yale sucks.

Dashiell F. Young-Saver ’16, a Crimson editorial writer, is an English concentrator in Winthrop House. His column appears on alternate Fridays.