if I said I had a headache you would have a brain tumor
I cannot even begin to talk about this weekend. So, I’ll start with something else.
Sometimes, when I’m walking down the street in my bright red Boston University sweatshirt, which is my warmarizer of choice even thought A. I hated BU and everyone knows it, and I will tell them with almost no provocation for reasons that you will soon find out and B. I only went there for one year so I really can’t say I know the first thing about the East Coast, well maybe the first thing, but certainly not the second. If we were going to be honest, I would admit that I think (without a shadow of a doubt) that I wear this particular sweatshirt in order to broadcast to the world that I attended (briefly) a “good school.” Although in truth, the biggest problem about BU is that they are suffering from a major Harvard induced inferiority complex, even worse than other second tier universities because you can actually see Harvard from their campus. They (and I) would like to entertain fantasies that this physical proximity makes BU somehow the same as Harvard. It doesn’t. I mean this is how I used to think, but after three years at a public school, I’ve defeated these elitist fantasies (not).
Anyway, sometimes when I’m walking down the street wearing said article of clothing someone will look at me and kind of growl under their breath, “BU.” I will usually not realize what they said until they have passed and so almost always miss the opportunity to engage them in a BU Hate Fest, which happens to be the #1 favorite activity of my fellow expats and I.
As luck would have it there is one in my own building. Chloe found this out when she was doing her laundry in the basement and got into a conversation with him. He mentioned that he had gone to BU, I’m not sure why, but probably having something to do with the reasons listed above, and she said that her roommate also was a refugee of this institution. He was no doubt intrigued.
An hour later, true to form, our buzzer went off and there he was standing at the door, hand extended, saying, “So, I heard you went to BU.” I promised him that we would talk later, as his girlfriend was trying to physically pull him into their apartment.
On Tuesday when I walked into my fencing class one of my instructors glared at me and asked, “I didn’t see you wearing a Stanford sweatshirt did I.” Yeah, I wish.
“No, it was from Boston University,” I replied, “You don’t have anything against BU do you?” I asked.
He responded that he didn’t, and I was about to tell him that I certainly did, but at the last minute decided not to since he had just said he went to a UC and he wouldn’t even know what I was talking about anyway. So instead I stabbed him with my foil. No, that was later.