April is my favorite month of the year. Another bleak winter is washed away by daytime showers. All of us who hibernate through the winter come out, and you are able to witness campus waking up from a deep sleep.
What’s wrong with kids today? It’s a question that has followed us from our jelly shoe-clad childhoods, to our MTV/TRL/TGIF loving adolescence, to our Not-Penn-State and definitely Not-Berkeley-circa-1960 University of Pennsylvania.
I discovered at the tender age of five that I was in possession of a very vivid imagination. I never hung upside down on a jungle gym, but rather from a tight rope in the middle of a floating circus in the sky.
As I write this, there are several other things I could, or rather should, be doing. I should, for example, be writing my 10-page paper (D-Day minus 2), doing my 200 pages of reading (D-Day minus 1) or studying for my midterm (D-Day minus 4). What I should not be doing is watching reruns of Full House or taking multiple naps.
What makes us choose Chipotle over Qdoba? iPods over Zunes? Christianity over Judaism? Marketing. You can try to convince yourself of the benefits of one product over another, but rest assured that a well-crafted marketing campaign had a lot to do with your ultimate decision.
Weather.com informed me that last Friday afternoon would be “18 degrees, feels like 1.” So I bundled up in six layers and proceeded to class in College Hall, where I removed four of them in response to Facilities’ overzealousness with the classroom heaters.
It’s been relatively easy to bash Whartonites and their ilk over the past several weeks. “Look at those fat cats on Wall Street, with their $60 million severance packages,” everyone from the crazy guy next to the Button to The New York Times has sniffed.
The other morning, when I woke up unsure of whether I was still drunk or just hungover, I found myself confronted by an important post-coital realization: I had screwed up (pun mildly intended). Before I go any further, understand that this is not that freshman-year-what-frat-house-am-I-in hungover regret.