(The following is excerpted from a sad, sad diary found on the bathroom floor of a Harvard freshman dorm, atop a pile of empty Adderall bottles.)

Friday, Oct. 17

8:30 P.M.

Tonight. Tonight will be different.

A sign: My roommate, Ralph, came back from the library. I haven’t seen him in a week. He’s wearing his contacts. He showered. He still hasn’t made eye contact with me, but something tells me he might attend the pregame in our suite. I heard a rumor that the Finals Clubs will — for the first time ever — open up.

I can’t be sure about the Clubs, but I do know that this isn’t going to be like every other Friday night. No way. This I swear: I will not end this night alone, drunk and screaming/crying at one of my FIFA players.

Maybe I’ll even get high.

8:32 P.M.

Nah, what if I have to admit that on a job application someday?

10:30 P.M.

The suite is bumping. I’m several shots into my handle of Smirnoff (which I’m obviously not sharing, why would that guy even ask?). Kennedy, the hot girl from psych class, just showed up. Oh, yeah! Sorry, Xbox, there’s a different set of buttons that I’ll be pushing tonight.

10:45 P.M.

I’ve been talking to Kennedy for the last ten minutes.

She’s totally down.

11:00 P.M.

Ugh, my 27-year-old proctor shut down the pregame. (Ed. Note: A proctor is a FroCo, if a FroCo were a fully fledged adult with absolutely no connection to Yale.) He says his toddler can’t sleep, but I suspect that Ralph, who’s studying in our room again, snitched.

11:10 P.M.

The rich kids are going to Hasty Pudding. (Ed. Note: Contrary to popular belief, this is neither an a cappella nor an improv group, but an actual club with a single criterion for membership — a familial tie to a Manhattan socialite.) Whatever. I didn’t want to be punched (trans: tapped) by them anyway.

Still, the second I go into investment banking, I should set up a trust fund for my future kid.

11:15 P.M.

All aboard the party shuttle!!!!!!! (Ed. Note: The “party shuttle” is a vehicle with a single purpose — to transport Harvard students from “party” to “party” over the weekend.) I think I can see nearly half a dozen people RAGING under this strobe light! I’ve promised myself that the party shuttle WILL NOT be tonight’s highlight. Not this time.

11:20 P.M.

Kennedy’s taking us to Pigeon. (Ed. Note: Pigeon isn’t a Finals Club. It is believed that the inebriated author misidentified one of the other fowl-themed institutions.) We’re right outside and I think I can see some bodies moving behind the windows. I’ve never been inside before, but I’ve got a hot girl with me. Kennedy won’t leave my side.

She’s so down.

11:23 P.M.

I can see the inside of Pigeon! A dude in a maroon blazer has opened the door. He looks at Kennedy and introduces himself as Preston.

“Freshman?” he asks me.

“No,” I lie. I have to. I can’t go back now, dammit! I’m inside! My right foot is in the hallway!

“Yeah … Okay, you’re not coming in.”

He puts his hand on the small of Kennedy’s back, guiding her into the house. I watch the backside of her head and feel her yearn for me.

“Please.” Come on, man, see my foot? It’s basically your foot!

“See ya, brah.”

Preston shuts the door. I am outside. I hear the music through the walls. My foot and I, we had some good times in there. I’m waiting for Kennedy to stick her head out the window or something.

She’s so down.

11:25 P.M.

She hasn’t stuck her head out the window yet.

You know what? When I’m in a Finals Club, I’m going to make it my policy to let one freshman guy in per night. Just one.

11:26 P.M.

Nah. I’m way too bitter for that. I’m going to slam the door in their stupid faces.

11:40 P.M.

Still outside. Remember: I am the shit. I go to Harvard. Number one. The best school in the country. Literally. For sure. At least I haven’t been waiting outside for 20 minutes in NEW HAVEN, am I right?! Haha, that place is totally sketchy! Totally…

11:45 P.M.

Yeah, she’s not coming back.

3:00 A.M.

Since I got home three hours ago, I’ve been playing Call of Duty against TheNext_Zuckerberg. It’s become a sort of Friday night routine: the two of us playing Xbox. I wonder what he’s like IRL? He regularly calls me a “little bitch,” so at least I know he has a good sense of humor.

I hear him cuss through my headset. The green light of the Xbox wavers in front of my drooping eyelids. My fingers go slack.

You know, this night may not have gone according to plan, but it’s still been my best night at Harvard ever. And the climax wasn’t even when I grinded on the party shuttle pole.

It was when I (or, my right foot) got into Pigeon.