A little pre-revolutionary glimpse into what our favorite Ten Dollar Founding Father was up to.

Good day, fellow students! It is I, Alexander Hamilton, here to take you through a day in my life at King’s College. I do so detest that name and what it represents… Ask anyone who heard my impromptu speech a few months ago. That will surely be the last of my 15 minutes of fame!

I awake promptly at 7:30 am to prepare for the day. I have a meeting with my special tutor, at 8:40 of course, as I am enrolled in a personalized program. (When I attempted admission at Princeton, I was denied this kind of program, but I needn’t get into how that went.)

After my morning studies, I have a break which I spend in search of a proper cup of tea in our local establishments. There is a local Shoppe of Pastries which serves the latest cuisines of the Kingdom of Hungary, including something called “matcha,” though I estimate this particular beverage to be of alternative origin. Nonetheless, I try a cup of matcha amidst the parlor’s ambiance (a local woman singer by the name of Claire O., who disseminated intriguing “pro-female” literature following her performance).

I then attend my lecture at 1:10 pm for a class called Frontiers of Science. I appreciate the necessities of broadening one’s mind through scientific knowledge, but this particular course is one I don’t particularly hope remains a requirement… I exit lecture at 2:25 and encounter my associate, Hercules Mulligan. He attempts to convince me to attend something known as “Night of Seniors” at the local Amitus Mead Hall, and rebuts my protestations of not being a “Senior” by reminding me that my accelerated course of study does not qualify me for traditional class year distinctions. I argue this would disqualify me from such a night altogether. The argument persists for an additional 40 minutes until I am forced to resign myself to attendance.

By this point I have but one class left in the day: Rhetoric. I love Rhetoric. This class lasts from the hour of 4:10 until 5:55 in the evening. I pass my time between engagements reading those blasted Seabury papers. How can anyone support the British in times like these? I discuss this at length with my roommate Robert Troup at our literary society meeting at 7 pm. We also consider giving ourselves a proper name (I favor “The Philolexian Society,” but Robert prefers that we remain unnamed).

Troup agrees to attend this Night of Seniors with Mulligan and myself, so we partake in a brief supper at Thomas’ Eatery, a slightly expensive restaurant for its culinary offerings that seems always to be inexplicably overcrowded, though neither myself nor any of my colleagues is sure why. It has been suggested that there is some local appeal for the location originating from a form of entertainment centered around some fictional figure, the Duke of Seinfeld (portraiture of his servant Kramer adorns one wall). However, I had never heard of this prior to my entry to King’s College. How peculiar!

Troup and I then meet Mulligan for Night of Seniors at Amitus and… well, as they say, what happens at Amitus stays at Amitus.

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