Bwog staff writer and daily editor, Timmy Wu, reflects on his first year of College life, and presents to you a rare, indecisive reflection on Columbia.

Today had to have been the six-thousandth time that I saw campus tour guides herding prospective students and their parents into Furnald, pointing out the woodwork of the lobby and the top-notch facilities. They filed into the abnormally large model room. There was no laundry from three weeks ago, no hidden bottles of whiskey and wine, no hair intertwined in the polyester fibers on the carpet. In the prospective students’ pamphlet, there are statistics, polished ones that don’t necessary translate into what you experience in Columbia. There are resources for the unquenchable, ever-expanding young minds, it wrote. There are spaces where you could talk about the things you cared about. There are gazillion clubs where you will find people who share your interests, with whom you will build a relationship that lasts forever after bouts and bouts of social anxieties, feeling of isolation and loneliness.

Like traveling through a tunnel, looking at the bright light yonder, you dived into Columbia, accepted the admission offer with naive ecstasy, without knowing that, shit, you have to get through these hours of very very nasty feelings. So here is a fluffy Bwoglove to those classmates with whom you suffered in First Year Arabic class, friends whom you immediately called after you woke up from a night of debauchery, and finally, clubs that somehow (mistakenly) did not reject you. Hold on to them. Tell them you thank them for getting through this rugged year by your side, tell them that you are willing to go to Ferris if they are feeling extra adventurous today.