Starring Peter J. Martinez, as Himself
The other day, at my weekly counseling session, the psychiatrist asked me what some of my coping techniques were. I thought for a minute and then replied, “Sometimes, when I’m lonely, I hold my pee-pee, really fast.” As the fourteen other students in my Tuesday afternoon Core section turned their faces away in disgust, the TF explained to me that this was not therapy, and that I had to leave Sever 102 immediately.
As I walked through the Yard, I looked forward to an afternoon of warming myself by the giant mushroom outside Canaday and then stalking the young adult section at Gutman Library. No sooner had I fallen asleep in the warm currents under the mushroom thanYard Ops came by and covered me in green mulch shot from a fire hose. After that, Gutman refused me admittance due to my history of crying into the books and ruining the bindings. Tears welling and covered in poorman’s Astroturf, I was mortified.
I was feeling a little down after this double rejection so I started to wander over towards Eliot to visit DA. I wanted a little pick me up, so I took off my corduroys and my boxers, put the corduroys back on inside out, and then jogged the rest of the way to Eliot. When I got to DA’s room I obviously needed to take a shower and do laundry, but I asked him to draw me a relaxing bath instead, the kind where he puts in all the ice cubes, and it’s intended only for my genitals. As we waited for the raisining process to run its course, DA and I started to talk.
How is it that we are still a month from commencement but it feels like we’re both already done with school? For four years our bodies have quivered in anticipation as we await the intellectual menarche of receiving our diplomas, but now no amount of Freudian exploration can get us pumped up to receive those tightly coiled cylinders of academic hubris. I had always assumed I would attend my own graduation, but then again, maybe I won’t.
DA hardly spends anytime at school anymore, flying between cities negotiating a record deal for his band, and I don’t even live on campus at all. It turns out they’re serious about the “within 100 yards of a school” rule. It was less than 24 hours from the time I was caught peering into DeWolfe windows with my binoculars to me living like a troll under Weeks Footbridge. It is so humiliating for me to call out to every passerby “answer me, these riddles three,” just to get the grain to grind for my bread.
It’s hard to get excited for June 7th when we are already so far beyond the Harvard community, and this time we’re not only talking about raw cognitive capacity. Is our lack of enthusiasm because we feel like we’ve matured beyond the college pastimes of pounding cup after cup of frecklejuice and then going home and binging on superfudge until we pass out? No, no way, those things are going to be fun forever. But maybe we’ve outgrown Harvard, otherwise known as Soul-Crusher the Great.
As we count down the days to freedom let us say this, we’ll miss some, but not most of you. That doesn’t mean we don’t like you, just that we don’t respect you. So if you ever see a disheveled man reeking of the Charles River pounding on the windows of Mass Hall wailing, “Are you there Derek C. Bok? It’s Me, Peter,” be kind, and get him a roll of toilet paper, because he probably just double-fudged in his pants.
Remember to submit applications to write the Bell Lap 3. The application can be found at the end of the last article. Apps are due by this Monday, May 7, and our successors will be named in the final issue.