Don't get me wrong: I was—and am—all about class. I was a straight-A student, never missed class, a teacher's dream, but that's not what I remember about college. What I remember is worrying that I wouldn't make friends, and then worrying that the friends I'd made weren't good enough, or that they knew that I wasn't good enough for them. I remember falling desperately in love with a beautiful sophomore who ate pomegranates and wore the warmest and sexiest gray and orange cable-knit wool sweaters in the fall, but worrying that no one, including her, would believe I was a lesbian because I'd never kissed a girl. I remember winning a grant to do summer research and choosing to do that research on French feminism over a summer in Paris, because another girl said if I went there, she'd come visit on her way home from studying abroad. And I remember drinking too much and smoking too much weed and trying cocaine even though I was sure it was going to kill me like how it killed Len Bias and smoking cigarettes out the window of the Women's Center while I waited for some other girl to stop by and make out with me in the bathroom across the hall and omigod Ani DiFranco is playing in the fucking student center how the fuck did we get so lucky.