and entering

My Last Joy in This Hellhole Is Stealing People’s Grill Orders

Just try enjoying your grilled cheese and fried egg now -- not on my watch, suckers

By a Former High School Valedictorian, Varsity Athlete, and Number One Hottie

Until about a month ago, Harvard felt like such a hellhole. In high school, I was the undisputed alpha. The top dog. The head honcho. So when I came to Harvard, I was flabbergasted when people somehow started beating me in things and – dare I say it – I became insecure about my sweet, well-manicured abilities. That is, until I discovered a new extracurricular that could serve as my path to redemption.

It happened as I sat in the Berg one day, moping over my Expos essay grade. Now, I would normally never do this – after all, I’d won “Most Ethically Proficient Student in the Ethics” in high school– but that day, something came over me. All of the envy and frustration I’d felt in my first weeks at Harvard drove me as I carefully eyed a lone burger sitting in wait for somebody at the grill. Then, so quickly that I didn’t understand what I was doing, I rose up, strode to the grill, nodded confidently to a HUDS employee, and slid that fucking burger away like a champ.

Now, the 250 hours of community service I’d conducted in high school told me that what I’d just done was horrendous. I’d committed a theft, a felony! But I couldn’t control myself – I took a little nibble of that burger. And wouldn’t you know? Each bite restored my sense of superiority over the other Plebeians at this school, and by the time I was finished, I felt like I’d won the middle school Geo Bee all over again.

I’m completely unashamed to say that grill order theft is now a favorite pastime of mine, so you all had better watch what you say around me. Oh, what’s that Little Billy? You got a higher score than me on the LS1a Pset? Let me just look over your shoulder the next time you’re ordering from the grill and proceed to swipe your fries from under your nose. I won’t even eat them; I’ll just soak in the marvelous view of those juicy, scrumptious potato wedges, and then dump them straight in the trash.

And just as my high school history teacher wrote in her recommendation letter, I'm committed to whatever I put my mind to. So lately, I've been making a habit of trekking the tedious journey to the Quincy and Dunster Grilles to put the upperclassmen in their places. A "Chocolate Shake for James!" quickly becomes a chocolate shake for me to stealthily slip away and watch in perverse delight as the individual oreo toppings and nutella drizzle slowly slide off into the storm drain.

I don’t steal grill orders just to assert my dominance over your sorry asses – I also do it for the intellectual challenge. Last Tuesday, as I steadily walked up and snagged someone else’s grilled cheese, I heard a voice from behind me exclaim, “Hey! I think that’s mine!” Thinking quickly, I proceeded to loudly cough three times onto the sandwich, and sent a smug look over my shoulder–yep, I don’t think it’s yours anymore, buddy.

So don’t take this as some teary-eyed confession, because I’m proud of the work I do. And if anybody out there can relate to my sentiments, feel free to join my new community service initiative, "Reverse Thanksgiving," where we can give back to the turkeys in the yard through Beyond Burgers stolen from that fucker who bragged too much about his winter internship plans.

© 2019