Word: abouting
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I felt like crap. Literally. After what seemed like a series of unfortunate personal and circumstantial setbacks, I’d been subjugated in my sophomore spring to the lowest caste of the Harvard housing system: floater. The word itself conjures up images of things fecal. A floater�...
I couldn’t help but feel so socially inadequate. What had I done wrong? I had friends. I was friendly. Maybe too friendly? Maybe friendly in the wrong kind of way. People liked me. People liked me? I thought people liked me. Somewhere along the line I had...
I included my hometown, concentration, and extracurriculars. I pushed send. A week passed. Then a month. Then I began to worry. Something was wrong. Who was this Nick character? Armed with his Anglo-Saxon last name and my Facebook stalking savoir faire, I hunted him down. From Jersey. Tennis player...
With little warning and much haste, the buzz-cut jock and I moved into our dorm together. We had nothing to talk about, so we shimmied about the room in near silence. But as he heaved his final box into the room, Nick looked around our common room and said...
It was just how it was supposed to be. We were so different but, somehow, once Nick brought his old red futon into our room, things started changing. Nick and I were like Bert and Ernie—no homo. My jeans were skinny, his loose. My voice loud and...