The end of sophomore year means that should you be possessed by the need to talk to a Randall Counselor, you will be the wrong year. I'm not ready yet. I love sophomore year. In fact, I don't even think I knew how much freshman year really bit until I realized how infinitely much better life is as a sophomore. But I don't want to be a junior either.
Sophomore year is like a grace period.
Wriston on a Saturday night. You are free from the 63 other freshmen in your unit, whom you thought were so cool during your first three weeks at Brown that you did not bother to search for other friends, only to have them all detest you by November. Free from unit outreaches that want to tell you the facts about eating disorders for the millionth time, free from fumbling around because you don't know which way to swipe your card at the entrance to the library, free from the damaging stigma of being the best class ever. I've never been there, but I can just imagine what it is going to be like. And, worst of all, somewhere around the middle of junior year, I have this sinking feeling that people are going to start asking me what I plan to do with the rest of my life.