Failure is an option

Just kidding, I think. Nevertheless, this is much harder than undergrad. Yesterday I woke up at 6a.m. to finish a paper and had to work on it, with minor interruptions -such as class- until 3:30. I never did this in undergrad. I didn't understand people who worked hard in undergrad. Here I have a look of hunted terror in my eyes that has nothing to do with, *sharp drawing in of the breath* my time in Vietnam. I'm kidding. I'll try to stop being ridiculous.

Two weeks ago I was toting a very expensive gun in the countryside of upstate New York. It was at a clay shooting range. We have a Texan here, and he wanted to go shooting. First we stood at the stations, and yelled pull, and the little clay things flew by, and I missed them all: 0-24. I was the only person who missed them all. Even the Indian girl who was smaller than the actual gun hit one of them. We had two shots, double barreled shotgun. She hit her first shot, then swung round to smile at us all, who were standing behind. The only problem was she pointed her loaded shotgun at us when she swung around. Thankfully I was hiding behind one of the other girls.

Last night I was in New York for dinner. Some people got done with their work early, and wanted to go to the Met. I was still desperately trying to finish an economics essay, so I couldn't join them until dinner. It was too much of a splurge. It took 3 hours, but it was amazing. Donna Brazile was sitting at the bar. The train to New York is 2 hours from here. I was utterly exhausted last night, having started working at 6a.m. and then gone to New York. It was uncomfortable sleep on the way back.

Before, however, we started back we attempted entry into the Yale Club. I figure that as a Yalie I am entitled to this Yale Club, right? Isn't that what the antiquated American ruling class is all about, joining very exclusive places to play squash? So with about 45 minutes to kill before our train, the four of us swaggered up to the doorman at the Yale club and informed him we would be going to the roof for a bit before our train left, and added that we had Yale student IDs. He quietly told us that as two of us were dressed in jeans, we certainly would not be allowed in. At no time is one allowed in the Yale club in jeans. He then suggested that we would be more comfortable at a Mexican restaurant around the corner called Tequilaville, and what is more just being a Yale student won't get you in. You have to be a member. At this point reactions in our group began to diverge. The New Yorker kept trying. Where is the membership information? Can I fill out an application here? The Norwegian was wearing a pair of jeans undoubtedly many times more expensive than the $10 cargo pants bought in Malaysia that I was wearing. I, typically, was ready to surrender and leave, and go to Tequilaville. Kidding. We did not go to Tequilaville. We got on the train and went home.