How do I become a campus celebrity?
If you are looking for something that will skyrocket you to instant fame — albeit with potential social consequences — try public urination: Mark your territory on the flagpole in front of Chapin. Who needs friends or job prospects when you have multiple YikYak posts in your honor? If that’s not your jam, I suggest starting a club. FAST will give you money to do anything. Embezzle all of the funds you are allocated. Get caught on purpose! This will be sure to catch the attention of the police, the administration, local and state news outlets — and maybe even your entrymates.
Yesterday I fell down the marble stairs in Sawyer while it was dead quiet — Looney-Tunes style, tumbles and all. Should I transfer?
Transferring isn’t enough. Williams is small: By dinner, everyone and their mothers will know about the incident. You need to completely remove yourself from society and shed all vestiges of your previous self. Join a monastery or a Pagan commune. Maybe, through self-abnegation and a proper regiment of austerity, you can be forgiven in the eyes of God. You will probably still be replaying that moment in your head, over and over again, for the rest of your life, though. The real question is: Can you ever truly forgive yourself?
When I read your column, I’m like, “Wow.” And then I’m like, “I can’t believe a cow wrote that.” Are all cows as smart as you?
What a reductive, human-centric question! Of course not. But they’re definitely smarter than you. Have you ever noticed something in the eyes of a cow that said, “I am sentient and probably judging you?” Every now and then, I get a glimpse of that perceptiveness in the eyes of a human (my JA), but almost all of you lack it. Cows are universally judgemental creatures. We are usually right and are not bound by human inventions like “morality” and “penal codes.” Why do you think that I, a field cow, get an advice column when the College employs several tenured faculty in behavioral psychology? Get a grip.
I keep hearing barks in the night. My suitemate says it’s his girlfriend. I also found dog hair on the couch and muddy paw prints on the croom floor. I confronted him about having a secret dog but he denied knowing anything. I feel like I’m going crazy. What do I do?
Fight fire with fire. Buy some cat litter and sprinkle it on the floor. Hire a theatre major to stay in your room and meow intermittently while you are gone (Lord knows they need the money). If your suitemate asks you about it, blame it on your “weird friend.” This psychological warfare could end in one of two ways. Either your suitemate will fold and be honest about the dog just to get you to stop, or this will continue for the rest of the year. At least, in the latter situation, you will have gotten your vengeance
