I might be a wise old sophomore now, but I still remember what it was like to be you. I took CS106a. I cried on my RA’s floor. I ate the dining hall chicken and got that rash that everybody gets.
And I remember how it felt to receive that Class of ‘25 lanyard: good. Like sex, probably. I knew immediately that it and I were going to last forever. I mean, how else could one possibly carry a plastic card? But soon enough I realized— as some of you slightly less stupid frosh might already be doing — that only lame, idiot freshmen wear lanyards, or any other clothes at all.
The moment someone sees you wearing clothes, they’ll clock you as the fucking imbecile little freshman you know you are. Trust me, you don’t want that. People will take advantage of you. Professors will try to get you to declare their dumb majors. The acapellas will hunt you down and make you sing for them.
Take me, for example. Once I realized only dum-dum frosh wore clothes, I totally reinvented myself. I got invited to all those Frat Parties. I found a Friend Group. I kissed lots and lots of Girls. You know, the things that all upperclassmen do. All because no one could tell from my wonderful nakedness that I was just a lowly, recently-clothed frosh.
Sure, you’ll have to carry your books from a shoelace tied to your swingers. And yeah, Nick Parlante is gonna see them, and he’s not gonna be nice about it. But take it from me. The best thing you can do for yourself is to hide your frosh-hood, and there’s only one way to do that.