Dear Members of the Harvard Community:

 

Fam, I'm gonna level with you. It's been a rough couple months for old Tommy D. My boy Skeech moved to Dallas to get a Master's in Video Game Development. Barreira wouldn't sign me off for medicinal pot because "dangerous surfeits of swag" isn't a "legitimate condition," apparently. Then to put the cherry atop this bullshit sundae, I bet some Owl douche 17 grand (which I may or may not have) that Andre 3000 would be the next president of Harvard, which in hindsight might have been a bad call.

 

But you know what has sustained Tommy D through this avalanche of playa-hating? The Market in the Square. From my daily 5:30 AM spicy chicken sub, to just standing there chugging a two-liter bottle of Naked strawberry protein shake before screaming, "Dine and dash, motherfuckers!" and running for it, Market is the light that guides me home. And by home I mean 'a bench in Radcliffe Yard, stuffing my face with cheap vinho verde and that blueberry yogurt where they mix in chunks of papaya that's always worse than you expected.'

 

And now it's all gone, just because some prick wasn't as good at pretending to pay his rent as the rest of us. This royal throne of stoners, this sceptered store, this other Eden, this demi-paradise, has vanished just because not everyone is smart enough to get Rakesh to co-sign their lease. Good night, sweet prince.

 

And now the only place in this whole fucking neighborhood that doesn't suck is that unlicensed Tilted Kilt running out of the Tatte basement.

 

Your Boy,

Thomas A. "Tommy D" Dingman, Dean of Phresh