Word: ghosting
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...Ghost of Pre-Thesis Past. “You were a healthy boy, fed on Annenberg chickwiches, suckled by Domna’s stale brain break bagels,” he told me. “You were a free spirit. You put an inflatable Queen Amadala armchair in your first-floor window, hoping to freak out Natalie Portman ‘03. There you are—age 18—sitting in your Grays Hall West common room, writing papers that are less than 8 pages long, sipping on booze for the first time, learning about the benefits...
Fast-forward three years. I’m a junior. I’m walking toward the Psychology Undergraduate Office, thesis application in hand. Dramatic music starts playing and the Ghost speaks. “This is where you screw yourself over.” I turn in the application. That night I sleep, visions of Hoopes Prizes dancing in my head...
...Ghost of Thesis Present. “Do you remember your old friend?” the second Ghost asks me as he points to the shower. “You used to be so clean, but look at you now—smelly, dirty, disheveled—a real loser. It’s the middle of November. You’ve been working hard, so hard that you forget to do basic things like brush your teeth. Your blue jeans are stiff from six continuous weeks of wear, and your Harvard hoodie reeks of curry chicken, last night?...
...Ghost of Post-Thesis Future. The Ghost of Post-Thesis Future walks with CumMinus, his three-headed magna-eating monster, and takes me to mid-January. “William, your thesis has been graded. Open your e-mail and read the letter from your committee.” I obey instructions. “Dear Mr. Adams. After reviewing your Senior Feces, we have denied you honors. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors, assuming they are not in any way related to academia. You cannot write. You cannot think. Your time at Harvard...
...Ghost looks at me with pity and informs me of what awaits thereafter. “You will still find a decent job, you will still find happiness and financial stability and you will still adopt a baby girl and name her Starr with two Rs. Were you to ever mention what you got on your thesis—whether you did good or bad—you would be labeled an asshole. You see, naive boy, your thesis means nothing but what you want it to mean. It is merely a footnote dropped at a cocktail party...