I don't know if I ever told you, but I went to Harvard. It's true.
Contrary to expectations, it had little to do with my being a genius. Actually, all I needed was a plane ticket to Boston and a good excuse, like my Ivy League homeboy's 21st birthday falling on a Friday.
That being said, Harvard taught me something I might not have learned elsewhere: Don't eat in booze-serving Chinese restaurants at 2 a.m.
More on that later.
When I first arrived at the home of the close-but-no-cigar Patriots, my insecurities began to get me down. First, I felt inadequate because my college tuition is reasonably priced. Second, my jacket clashed with all my outfits and I was awkwardly scarf-less.
Lastly, Carly Hallam's column on Friday was a masterpiece (please read it if you haven't already), and I will never be able to write like that.
But those feelings of self-pity diminished with each additional Harvard student I met.
I enjoy short weekend trips because of the compressed experiences. There's rarely a dull moment.
Case in point: G.I. Nick, a man who may or may not have been a veteran Army Ranger studying at Harvard's business school.
Nick "introduced" himself to my friend and me as we were eating in a nearby Chinese restaurant early Saturday morning.
He was blitzed, bald and built like a refrigerator. When he invited himself to sit next to me, my only solace was to ready my fork for a swift attack.
Nick began to educate us on the tenets of effective racism, the keys to success with women and the principles of fighting terrorists in Afghanistan and/or Iraq. Somehow the subjects overlapped seamlessly.
Death threats and foul language were also discussed.
At one point, I hypothesized how my height might be making it difficult to date girls.
Nick's insight: "You see that guy over there? He's 5-7 and he shot three Iraqis in the face with a 9 mm."
I was going to educate Nick on dental hygiene, but it would have been like talking to a wall - a large, drunken wall.
And just as quickly as he came, Nick left without explanation. I kind of miss him.
Saturday evening was much less eventful, even though Sunday morning seemed to indicate otherwise. I woke up with a sore throat, a stomachache, nausea, and inner ear, jaw and neck pain.
I knew something was seriously wrong with me when I couldn't even feign an argument with the inspector at the airport security checkpoint.
Basically, he started going through my cosmetic - I mean toiletry - bag before I went through the metal detector.
He was touching my toothbrush, which would have made me uncomfortable under any other circumstances.
Afterward, I regained coherence and threw away the toothbrush.
The plane ride didn't help. I know Jerry Seinfeld has said all that needs to be said about air travel, but I was able to come up with one more observation.
If they say not to drink the water from the airplane bathroom sink, should I really wash my hands with it?
Come on, I went to Harvard.
Vincent Massaro is a journalism senior. His column appears on Mondays.
