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.