Introduce yourself to all 1,372 of your classmates in the first
week of Camp Yale and only remember Kyle. Kyle will
be important in the end, I promise.

Go along with your friends to see all the famous guest
speakers and pretend you’ve heard of them, because wise
words and tenuous social connections will serve you well
for your next—and last—four years.

Study excessively in each library until the sight of old,
weathered books makes you want to vomit and die, and
the only option left is to do homework in the fetal position
in a pool of tears on your common room floor. At least
this will help you get back in touch with your prenatal
self, which once thought nothing and felt no pain (this is
a state to which you will return when you die).

Enter senior year with a positive new attitude, but after two
weeks relapse into napping every day in front of a blank
Word document entitled “My Terrible Thesis.” Who
cares? You probably won’t live to see your grade, anyway.
Upload your last paper onto ClassesV2, then take a lighter to
your laptop and delightedly watch it burn.

Ceremoniously release toads into Toad’s, where you have
always thought they belonged. There, they will carry on
your legacy of late-night misbehavior.
Reconnect with Kyle from Camp Yale by finding out where
he lives and throwing rocks at his window while crying,
“Goodnight, my Sweet Prince!” despite not having seen
him since Camp Yale.

Text Cindy to tell her you’re sorry for sleeping with Jack
sophomore year, that you’re not sorry for spilling cheap
rum on her second favorite pair of overalls junior year,
and that you hope you’ll see her on the other side.

Reflect on your memories of the last four years as a cloaked
Peter Salovey leads you from commencement into the
damp darkness of the steam tunnels, and you hear the call
of death beckoning as the cold cloth of the blindfold folds
your eyelids closed forever — oh, they didn’t tell you
about this part? Oh, geez, this is awkward…

—A. Wang

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