Greek life used to make me shriek. As a result of growing up in a southern college town, the words fraternities and sororities became synonymous to me with partying, money, and stupidity. Even though I viewed Greek life in a negative way, I still made the decision to go through recruitment this year. To be honest, I’m not really sure why. When people asked, I would tell them that sorority sisters form tight bonds and I was interested in that. But, I suspect I also saw it as some form of rebellion against my parents, who were not fans of the whole Greek Life culture. Whatever the reason was, the week of orientation, I entered my information onto the sorority recruitment page and was ready to go.
My first day of class, I was up before my alarm. I typically take an extra ten minutes to mourn the end of summer. That morning, however, was the exception. That morning was a magical microcosm of perfection, on par with a sunny “getting-ready-for-school” movie montage. I could almost hear faint echoes of peppy ukulele music.
It might be exaggeration on my part to say that I’m wholly illiterate, but compared to the ever-expanding language of computers, my programming experience pretty much equates to knowing the alphabet. Two Saturdays ago, equipped with a somewhat functioning knowledge of command prompt and for loops, I entered the cavernous hub of ingenuity that is HackMIT.
This was it. This was the day I had been dreaming of for the past few months, the day I had been fantasizing about in my mind over and over again since my official enrollment into MIT, the day I thought might never come: today was the first rain.
There are times when I can forgive myself for unleashing my inner music fangirl. Even rarer are the occasions when I can allow myself to release her in public. During Boston Calling, two days before my first hell week, was one such occasion. In that period of pre-hell week, I saw armies of deadlines and tests march toward my slapdash barricade — namely, the weekend — but it was too early for a call to action. All I could do was sit quietly in a corner and hope that if I ate enough chocolate, I would survive the trials to come.
I really don’t have any extraordinary talents. I can’t throw a 90 mph fastball, I have the vocals of a dying cat, and I can guarantee you that there were multiple revisions before this article even made it close to the paper. Needless to say, I was a little intimidated when figuring out what clubs I wanted to join here at MIT.
Unlike most horror stories, ’twas not dark and stormy when disaster struck one mild Friday afternoon. It might as well have been, though — the magnitude of my technological catastrophe should by all rights have triggered a swirling mass of rain and hail. Instead, I was left to gape at the aftermath of my colossal mistake to a backdrop of sun and blue sky.
There are few text messages in this world that would prompt me to ditch a Chipotle burrito bowl and sprint back to campus. These anomalies include: “fountain of youth sprung from burst New House pipe,” “Random Hall milk gained sentience,” and “free pizza at Burton-Conner front desk.” On Halloween night, while taking advantage of the burrito discount, I received one such text of immense motivational caliber.