The Ivy League Doesn’t Make Zombies: On Getting An Education At Yale
Someone once walked up to me and said, “I’m so sorry that your parents let you go to Yale. You’ll never be able to relate to normal people now.”
Someone once walked up to me and said, “I’m so sorry that your parents let you go to Yale. You’ll never be able to relate to normal people now.”
I think I know why we do it. Record everything. Filter it, crop it, save it, post it. Every image, every word. For perpetuity’s sake but also for something else, something more urgent. We haven’t yet found out who we are.
When I feel like I can’t be bothered, I still know how to get off my butt and do what needs doing. I have another life depending on me. I can’t always afford to pick the selfish option.
I tell myself that it’s just the weather, that after I break out of my winter doldrums I will happily waltz into the Washington Sports Club every day at 5:30 pm and get in shape for (eek) bikini season. Of course I will.
It’s as if we’re only supposed to like the BFB enough that we would be friends with him under different circumstances — we’re not actually supposed to actively be friends with him.
I’m not interested in a Church that’s too busy hunting Satan to see God, but I don’t want to find a new religion.