Featuring 300 seats inside and 80 on the patio, the $9 million, 14,000-square foot restaurant in Hynes Convention Center has two floors, three bar areas, three dining rooms, and outdoor seating on the Prudential plaza. As for the interior, we must again put gossip to use. Chowhound’s “Tatsu,” who attended the soft opening, had this to say: “Quite frankly, it is second to none in terms of curbside and inside appeal, not even the Mandarin, and that is quite the architectural boast.” She also noted, “the bar at the entrance rivals all of those on Boylston,” and “massive plate glass windows in every room” offer stunning views, “easily 150 meters across the entire length of Hynes.” The interior features “charming whimsical touches,” but the expansive cement courtyard is “not so gorgeous.”

But let’s get down to what really matters: the food. Created by renowned Boston chefs Lydia Shire (of Locke-Ober) and Jasper White (of the Summer Shack chain), the menu features a grand total of 15 lobster selections, as well as steak, pasta, and tandoori meat dishes from all over the world. But while one might expect expensive cuisine from such an opulent looking restaurant, most entrees ring in at around $27.

With high hopes that the hearsay is accurate and the restaurant will in fact be open by the end of the month, every girl in town will be on the edge of her seat until that seat is at Towne.

With sparkling chandeliers, striking catwalks, and sumptuous floor-to-ceiling windows, this bar’s spectacular 90-foot lobby rotunda is blanketed with velvet and leather sofas, usually occupied by the most fashionable and wealthy of Boston’s straight male thirty-somethings eyeing nearby cliques of tipsy yet trendy twenty-something girls who’ve mastered the art of dancing in heels with brimming martinis in hand.

City Bar – Lenox Hotel

This quiet and intimate atmosphere draws a handful of sophisticates each night. Known for its watermelon mojitos and extra dirty martinis, the bar’s ambiance feels a bit like Grandpa’s parlor, but with modern touches like sleek blue accent lighting, and a much chicer crowd, of course.

Bond – The Langham Hotel

If looks can kill, Bond’s certainly got a license to. With soaring ceilings, low seating, and a DJ spinning four nights a week, this bar’s artsy mirrored backdrop distorts reflections of the jaw-dropping, 10-foot crystal chandeliers. The entire space literally glitters; it is perhaps Boston’s most stunning lounge.

Eastern Standard – Hotel Commonwealth

While the 46-foot marble bar has 22 seats, each is as coveted as ever in this crowded Kenmore Square hotspot. The distinctive, retro cocktail menu offers Boston’s most creative libations, with a lengthy, fascinating story behind the name of each.

M Bar & Lounge – The Mandarin Oriental

Boston’s most luxurious hotel has a bar to match, complete with a custom-designed wine wall with over 300 vintage bottles, an extensive cocktail menu, an illuminated glass bar top, romantic banquettes, and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows. Hand-carved wood blocks on the back bar wall add a touch of rustic elegance.

1. 1. The Yard (215 Charles Street, Beacon Hill)

Most of us are all too familiar with the Liberty Hotel’s dazzling, ultra-posh lobby bar and its perpetual swarm of Boston’s crème de la crème.  Yard, the bar’s outdoor patio, is a lesser-known gem. Open only for summer months (M-Th 4pm-9pm, Fr-Sa 4pm-10pm, closed Sunday), this urban oasis has low, lounge-like seating and a secluded, peaceful ambiance. Not only can you enjoy oysters, shrimp ceviche, and a cocktail or twelve in the evenings, The Yard also offers complimentary yoga at 10am on Saturdays, and features outdoor screenings of popular films at 7:30pm on Mondays.

1. 2. Casa Romero (30 Gloucester Street, Back Bay)

Tracking down this place is no easy feat; its entrance is simply a door in a dark alley. But this door leads you directly into the heart of Mexico. The buried restaurant’s adorably tiny, sunken patio glimmers with the flickering rhythms of candle flames and white lights, making it the most romantic space in all the city. Wash down authentic Mexican food (the mole dishes are particularly fabulous) with a few icy margaritas, and you’ll never want to step out the door and back into Boston.

1. 3. Trattoria Il Panino (11 Parmenter Street, North End)

Tucked into a tiny North End side street, this surprisingly spacious patio is one of the area’s few dining destinations wherein patrons aren’t crammed in like sardines. The intimate outdoor garden is utterly enchanting, and the earthy Mediterranean cuisine from Italy’s Amalfi Coast is even better. Be it a pro or con for you, the garden also allows guests to enjoy cigarettes and cigars at the table.

1. 4. The Daily Catch (2 Northern Avenue, South Boston)

This Oceanside restaurant offers a total escape from the hustle and bustle of urban life, despite its breathtaking views of the city skyline. Just feet from the cool water of the Boston Harbor, the patio’s ambiance is reminiscent of a Nantucket vacation, and the Sicilian style seafood and pasta is almost as sensational as the atmosphere. Do not be daunted by the bizarre façade of the “Tinta di Calamari,” a homemade pasta drenched in pitch black squid ink; all who try it immediately join its cult-like following.

1. 5. The Beehive (541 Tremont Street, South End)

Rated one of the “Top 100 Jazz Clubs in the World” by Downbeat Magazine and hailed as a must-see venue by Travel & Leisure, Zagat, and the New York Times, the Beehive is an always-buzzing, funky underground Boho eatery and bar featuring nightly live music that includes a mix of Jazz, Blues, R&B, Reggae, Latin, Country, Cabaret, and Burlesque. The distinctive 80-seat patio, called “the BEEch” has an urban picnic theme; gourmet food is served in packages and jars tucked into picnic baskets to share.

Nantucket Natural Oils felt a bit mystical at first, as we beheld the floor to ceiling shelves dense with tiny glass bottles filled with mysterious-looking potions. We half-expected to discover a witch lurking in the corner, and were taken aback when greeted by a friendly young man from behind the counter. We smiled back, and then began to marvel over each bottle with drunken enthusiasm, not at all restricted by our complete cluelessness. We did not know whether these strange liquids were hair products, medication, or beverages, but we were intrigued nonetheless.

Eventually, the man kindly took it upon himself to explain to our drunk asses where we were: in a specialty fragrance shop, containing the exact scents of every men’s and women’s designer name fragrance. The sole difference is that here, the alcohol (which typically stings our nostrils initially, seeming “too strong,” then quickly fades to “nonexistent”) is replaced with an essential oil, allowing for the purest and longest-lasting scent possible. Ordinarily, aroma lingers on the skin for about three hours, but here, a minuscule dab is guaranteed to last all day. With this in mind, I decided that the price (about $45 per 0.25 OZ) is not terribly atrocious.

It doesn’t end there. Nantucket Natural Oils also encourages custom scent creation, or the mixing of several fragrances to form your signature. It may seem like a complex task, but if Paris Hilton and Britney Spears can do it, so can you!

…and so can a monkey.

…and so can a rock.

Anway, after you’ve whipped up your perfect whiff, why not take it to next level and select a hand-blown bottle ($40-$90) in which to store it? (This is what the salesman asked me with a smirky smile.)

I’ll tell you why not: because $40-$90 is WAY too much to dish out for a perfume bottle, especially considering the additional $150 I’d have to spend to fill it. Plus, I’ll be honest: they aren’t even cute, so I recommend dodging the expense and saving your extra coin to host a party here. Guests enjoy mouthwatering platters of Eastern Standard’s fingerfood while fashioning their fragrance, making for an absolutely perfect girls’ day out.

To sum it up: You need not a witch to create a magic potion.

That being said, when I found out Tangerino was one of Kate’s favorite Boston hotspots, I knew I needed to dine there a-sap. Located at 83 Main St. in Charlestown, it demands a pretty steep cab fare, but the minute you set foot in this divinely seductive, ornately romantic Moroccan restaurant slash Hookah lounge, money matters become a thing of the past; so much so that you might find yourself ordering $100 glasses of wine and $50 appetizers as your host seats you, trickling lavender-scented water on your hands from a fancy silver teakettle.

Awarded one of Boston’s top ten romantic restaurants, Tangerino indulges in every luxury when it comes to decor. Lavish tapestries, pillows, and lanterns fill each room, as do gorgeous antique tables and even belly dancers (7:30pm to 11pm). The vibe is utterly mesmerizing, distinctive in its combination of dark sexiness and fairy-tale allure. My girlfriends and I were captivated.

“I want someone to propose to me here,” I said, a little tipsy after my third glass. A collective “Ohmygod, that would be AMAZING!” followed.
“No, I mean right now!” I said.

So Suez and I darted into one of the nearby, wildly stunning booths, drew the curtains, and fake-proposed to one another. Only truly romantic restaurants like Tangerino possess the capability to create the illusion of love between any two people, even allowing for temporary changes in sexual orientation.

The menu offers authentic foods such as spiced lamb and seven vegetable couscous, as well as contemporary dishes like seared duck confit with foie gras and roasted red snapper. My taste palette is quite basic, and I do not often enjoy foreign cuisine; however, I considered my exotic entree not “weird,” but uniquely satisfying. Even Allie, who believes sandwiches are “bizarre,” branched out and ordered lamb, which she absolutely loved (or was she merely beguiled into thinking so by the dazzling ambience?)

After dinner, drift into the evocative 18+ hookah lounge for an evening of supreme relaxation. On weekends, you’ll need to come early enough to reserve your own hookah; word is, the lounge fills up FAST. While waiting for a hookah, though, smoking cigarettes and cigars is permitted, and you’ll find it’s well-worth the wait. Smoking beautiful hookahs, surrounded by beautiful people, in a beautiful room, you just might find yourself a bit overwhelmed. Just remember, too much of a good thing is great.

To sum it up: Seductive decor, exotic music, Moroccan masterpieces, and a chill hookah lounge make Tangerino Boston’s hottest date spot.

That’s the understatement of the year. Let’s be serious: I fucking hate sports. Athleticism and I are ancient enemies, and have been ever since the birth of Middle School’s cruel “Skill Tests,” which are clearly designed solely to humiliate the awkward and/or fat kids. Honestly, can you think of anything more demeaning than being forced to climb a rope in front of 60 viciously judgemental tweens?

If you answered yes, you’re what I call a “Skill Test Prodigy,” and are clearly designed solely to further humiliate the awkward and/or fat kids. You should be ashamed of yourself, and your ridiculously high standing long jump score.

For me, the absolute worst was the “Free Throw.” We were each alloted three minutes to score as many baskets as possible, all while our savage and bloodthirsty peers looked on. Brilliant, huh? Not surprisingly when considering the conditions, I scored a perfect ZERO. Everyone was stupefied.

“That was a fluke,” the PE teacher said, masking her snicker with a bogus cough. “I’ll give you another try.”

Did she genuinely believe she was doing me a favor? More likely, she found my astonishing incompetence to be amusing, and simply wanted three more minutes of unsurpassable entertainment.

“I’d rather just take the zero.”

“Well I’d rather not be a gym teacher, but I ain’t whinin’ about it.”

Nine minutes later, I hobbled off the court. I had made 1% of my shots and lost 100% of my dignity. A passionate hatred for everything resembling athletics fermented that day, and has not since dwindled in the slightest.

But when I was offered 10th row tickets to the Red Sox/Yankees game last night, I decided it was time for sports and I to make amends. Watching them is far eaiser than playing them, but still requires a few Know-How’s. I thus present to you The Girly Girl’s Guide to Fenway:

1. Disguise youself as a die-hard fan @ the Yawkey Way Store, the souvenir store across from Fenway. With over 100 sweatshirt designs to choose from, you’re sure to find something cute, but that’s not to say it’ll be cheap; one zip-up sweatshirt and a baseball cap cost me $150. Don’t I look legit, though?

While displaying your fanhood is important indeed, warmth should be your prime concern. For me, staying warm meant wearing two sweatshirts, knee high skiing socks, gloves, a hat, and two very heavy blankets.

2. Get drunk. Every time you polish off a beer, stack a new one inside its empty cup. This is a good idea for three reasons: 1) it makes you look eco-friendly, 2) your hands will stay warmer because of the thick barrier, and 3) you’ll always be aware of how many drinks you’ve had. When your stack of cups becomes too high to handle, it’s probably time to stop drinking anyway.

3. Familiarize yourself with the art of heckling. This step is critical and thus requires its own small series of steps. All examples were heard last night.

• Be brief. Remember that as a heckler, you’re performing for the sections around you. If your planned burn is a 5-sentencer with the punchline at the end, your audience will likely start laughing before you’re through. In said case, they’re laughing AT your drunk ass, not with it.

  Sufficient burn: “Yankees suck!”
  Mere blabber: “Hey Yankees, you’re from New York and everyone thinks you’re a bunch of overpaid prima donnas who haven’t performed in the post season in eight years. Basically, when it comes down to it, you pretty much just suck!”

• Attacks on a professional athlete’s personal life are open season. In fact, some of the greatest hecklers in the world get their material from athletes’ exploits AWAY from the field.

  Sufficient Personal Burn 1: “Hey Clemens, Canseco’s having another bash. B.Y.O.’Roids. Can I get a ride?”
  Sufficient Personal Burn 2:
  Vendor1: “POPCORN heah!”
  Vendor2 “Cotton Candy heah!”
  Heckler: “Hey A-Rod: Steroids heah!”
  

• Of course, uncertainties about an athlete’s personal life can be equally effective.

  Sufficient Personal Burn 1: “Gaaaaaaaay-Rod!”
  Sufficient Personal Burn 2 (Team Attack):
  Heckler1: “Jeter, you suck!”
  Heckler2: “Yeah! And A-Rod, you swallow!”

• *Bonus: Throw in a Boston accent for added effect.
  
• *Also note: The drunker you are, the wittier you are. Even if this isn’t actually the case, you’ll be drunk enough to believe it is.
  
• *Also note: Remember to harass not only the opposing team, but also any fans who may be in attendence.

4. Eventually, you’ll get a bad case of the drunk munchies. Stick to the basics with a Fenway Frank. Or, if you can muster up the nerve required to order something entitled “Fried Dough,” I’ve heard it tastes exactly like heaven. As far as Italian Sausages go, you’re better off buying one from the sausage vendor on Lansdowne St.

All in all, Fenway park is most certainly a hotspot. Red Sox players are sexy, and so are many of their drunk fans. Plus, it’s actually quite an entertaining game. Just be sure to dress warm, heckle wisely, and watch out for balls flying at your nose (“there goes your social life!”).

I tend to get extremely competitive when sharing either of two things: 1) chocolate or 2) scorpion bowls. So, when my group suggested ordering nachos with the Blue Mayan bowl, I secretly celebrated, hoping they’d be distracted enough by the food not to notice that I was downing the equivalent of 10 margaritas in one very long sip through a straw…and much to my enjoyment, they were. Retrospect won’t stop whining about this.

Anyway, the girls and I were sufficiently smashed (me especially) when a group of boys pulled up chairs to join our table. I introduce myself to the boy next to me:

“Hi, I’m Brittany.”
“Hi. How do I explain this…well, my last girlfriend went to Harvard.”
“Ooh, good for her! But how is that relevant?”
“You have blond hair.”
“True.”
“Blond-haired girls aren’t smart. That’s why I like her. She seems smart.” (gestures towards Suez, the only brunette at the table, who happens to be a natural blonde.)
“Is English your first language?”
“No.”
“OOH! You must be mixed up. You just told me that I’m not smart because I have blond hair, and that she is because she has brown hair.”
“Exactly!”
“Wow.”
“So…I just don’t think we should talk. We wouldn’t see eye-to-eye.”

I head to the bathroom to recover from the overwhelming ignorance I’d just witnessed. Suez comes along, and I angrily explain the story.

“I can’t believe anyone would be dumb enough to think that, let alone say it to my face. He straight-up REFUSED to talk to me because I’m blond!”
“Brittany! Just because you decide someone is stupid doesn’t mean you’re better than them!” Suez snapped.
“Shouldn’t you be directing this comment at the boy?!”
“No, Brit! You need to chill out and stop judging everyone!”

I storm over to my friend Allie, who has been flirting with Patriot’s player Steve Neal.

“I’m leaving,” I say.
“But you’re wearing my shoes.”
“Here, take them,” I say as I kick them off.
“But you’re wearing my shirt too.”
I manage to slide it off under my coat in what I imagined to be a discrete manner.
“And my bra.”
“Allie, are you serious?!”
“It’s my only strapless!”

I fling it at her, whipping her in the face. We now have the attention of every male in the bar. I’m just praying Steve Neal doesn’t get involved. I devise a plan of attack just in case he does, though: bite him and scratch him simultaneously (my only hope of getting out alive).

“Oh God…I’m sorry Al, I didn’t mean for that to hit you.” I look over at Suez, who appears to be eating up every word Bastard McBlondeHater is saying. (“Last year, I made over $100,000, and my brother drives a Ferrari.” How he managed to slide that into the conversation is still beyond me. Maybe if I dyed my hair brown I’d understand.)

“What do you people put in your nachos?!” I demand. One of my friends is flirting with a 350 pounder, and the other with a horse’s ass. (Admittedly, I might not have hated him so much if I was brunette at the time. But still.)

I suddenly feel something swipe my face. I look at Allie – she’s giggling. I look at the ground – her bra is lying at my feet. I impulsively chuck it back at her, and she chucks it back at me. We then stopped throwing it and start simply whipping each other in the face with it. Our once light-hearted play fight morphed into a full on, rage-filled catfight. Suez tries to break it up, and I push her away yelling something about this being a blondes-only fight. Furious, she dives in.

The next morning, we all admitted the brawl was alcohol’s fault. Maybe I misunderstood the boy; afterall, he did have an accent, and I am blond (and thus not smart enough to comprehend one). Maybe Suez misunderstood my recount; afterall, I was probably slurring like a crazed monster. Who the hell knows.

Catfights aside, the Cactus Club is a great bar that boasts Boston’s Best Margarita and some pretty decent tex mex. But PLEASE beware the three B’s (blue mayan bowls, bastard mcblondehaters, and bras). Combining them is a very dangerous decision. Instead, I recommend an exclusively girl’s night out. The caramel apple martinis are absolutely fabulous, and let’s face it: the male species is highly overrated.

I woke up today with an unbelievable urge to epiphanize (the unofficial verb form). The roomies were passed out, which ruled out conversation. I considered faking a near-death experience in an attempt to see my life flash before my eyes, but decided that would be the half-ass route, and instead took a two hour, epiphaniless shower. Boo.

When the roomies finally awoke, I explained my longing; they understood completely. We all have these days, and we all know what they call for: a trip to The Tam, the diviest dive bar in Boston.

The Tam provides us with the cheapest drinks in town and a jukebox offering every cheesy 80′s single imaginable. There is no better way to epiphanize than to drown yourself in blue-bottled Bud Lights, blast some Blondie, and rub elbows with Emerson hipsters. There’s something about the cheap christmas lights and chilled-out bartenders that never fails to put all three of us into states of nirvana. We often find ourselves so floored by our own realizations that we scream them across the bar to random strangers.

Last night, Suez hit me with this one: “A stereotypical image of a stoner is some doped up guy saying, ‘It’s all good, dude.’ Right? And we, as creatures, have come to understand this saying as one synonymous with, ‘I forgive you.’ But do you know what he’s really saying? He’s saying…it’s ALL good. EVERYTHING is good. Life is fucking GOOD!”

“Life is fucking good!” I slurred back, twirling around to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’. “Especially if you’re a pothead! That must be why potheads always say it!”

“EXACTLY!” She roared with a theatrical fist pump as Brian moonwalked past.

But the epiphany of the night was quite simple: Nothing compares to Sinead O’Connor’s Nothing Compares 2 U.

Suez and I magically transformed our sheets into halter dresses with stunningly low backs. We were as close to the Red Carpet as lilac jersey and safety-pins could take us.

But our looks weren’t complete yet; we needed something ivy-ish. My brilliant solution involved two glittery yellow roses, which I purchased as a Mother’s Day gift when I was nine. I recently found them gathering dust in the basement and snagged them for my apartment. What a steal! I remember thinking as I proudly arranged them in the living room. The next day, I awoke to a drunk letter from Brian:

Brit –

Your favorite roomie

But for some reason, I could never part with them. Subconsciously, I must’ve known they’d make perfect toga headpieces one day! I thought smugly, as we wrapped them around our heads.

“Damn, we look good,” Suez observed as we finished up our nymphy makeup and hopped in a cab.

“You look like a jungle,” Suez’s boyfriend Eric said to her as we entered the party. “What’s on your head?”

We were too dazzled by the surroundings to mind; ivy smothered the walls and hung from the ceilings, and white mattresses carpeted the floors, along with trays of Greek finger food and bags of Franzia (white, red, and blush).

Here are the rules, as explained by frat brother Fred Lucas:
1. You may not stand up.
2. You may only eat when fed by someone else.
3. You must drink directly from the wine bags, which someone else must hold. Futhermore, no bag of wine may touch the ground until it’s empty.
4. No food fights until the Baklava is served.

Suez went to town on the Franzia spout, sucking like there was no tomorrow. Interesting strategy, I recall thinking, I’ll do it too…but with two spouts at once! Clearly, we weren’t thinking clearly. Retrospect tells me I should’ve taken it easy. Retrospect is insightful, but only around when I don’t need it. This frustrates me.

Grapes and cheese started off our feast, and Suez and I immediately broke Rule #4. Hurling grapes at people’s faces was far too amusing to resist. The wine kept flowing, and our togas were soon soaked in it. I stood up to wring mine out, and was instantly screamed at by 25 frat boys. I sat down, defeated.

“Want some lamb?” offered Fred, holding up a slimy chunk of meat with his bare hands. If I was going to be this low-maintenance, one thing was for sure:
“I want my own bag of wine,” I said.

That’s the last thing I remember. However, I played detective this morning and gathered some interesting information about my night.

First, I’m told I was in bed by 11:30. Yes, that’s PM. Suez and I apparently decided to leave at 11, probably thinking it was around 3AM. This decision necessitated Eric carrying me down five flights of stairs and into a cab; evidently, I lost the coordination required to walk.

Next, I’m told I puked in the lobby of my apartment while waiting for an elevator. Lovely. When it arrived, I’m told it was packed.

“Sorry elevator, for smelling like vomit!” was the phrase I’m told I sang aloud when I walked in, and every time someone new entered.

“Get away!” is the phrase I’m told I screamed at Eric when he tried to put me to bed.
“Me?” He asked.
“No, the stuff on my bed!” I’m told I replied while throwing clothes, books, makeup, and shoes left and right.

I then crawled in…and haven’t moved since, except for a brief trip to Panera for some broccoli cheddar soup, which has successfully cured every hangover of mine until this one. Any suggestions?

In my two years at BU, I have slept through two midterms and one final, turned in a paper a year and half late, attended a grand total of three lectures, and sent over 45 emails explaining why I can’t make it to today’s discussion. In fact, I am supposed to be in class at this very moment. But instead, I am here:

Below: The Boston Common

I am the reigning queen of procrastination. You may not think very highly of this position, but it does in fact have its benefits.

Do you often find yourself…
-suffering through miserably boring classes?
-overwhelmed with tedious homework?
-drowning in a sea of meaningless notes?
-stressed out?
-wishing you were somewhere else?

I don’t. If it’s not fun, I say, put it off! These are our glory days! Once we enter the harsh world of adulthood, getting away with procrastination will be nearly (if not completely) impossible. Thus, I present to you my favorite word of all time: schneep. Don’t bother looking it up; much like my excuses for missing class, this word is a complete fabrication. It can be used as a verb (“I didn’t do my homework, so I’m gonna schneep class”), an adjective (“I wasn’t in class on Tuesday because Tuesdays are prime schneep days”), or even a noun (“Dude, Prof. Schneebly totally bought my schneep…whoa, those words are oddly similar”).

The definition varies depending on the context, but schneeping generally conveys “successfully bullshiting your way out of a monotonous task.” My first monotonous task was attending High School, and schneeping it required only a forged note (preferably written in purple gel pen):

Dear attendence attendance office,
My son/daughter, (your name), has a dentist appointment at 9:00 AM and must be excused at 8. He/she will not be returning. I know this is the third appointment this week, but his/her toothaches are getting very serious. I hope you understand. Please feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns @ (your cell number).

Peace out,
Love always,
From,
Bye.
Sincerely,
(your name) (legal guardian)

The cross outs were sketchy. So was the idea of my mom choosing not to simply call me in sick, but instead write a note excusing me after no more than 20 minutes of class. Given the fact that I was 15 and had no license, she — presumably — drove me to school, drove home, waited about seven minutes, and then drove back to pick me up.

After successfully dismissing myself, I would hop in my older accomplice’s car. We couldn’t go home (our parents were there), but we made do. Every schneep day was a new and exciting adventure.

…And every schneep day still is. The only difference is that now, it’s even easier. We don’t have to come face-to-face with anyone; all it takes is a simple email. The best part is that our professors know nothing about us. “My sister’s not well,” we can write. “I have to fly to Australia to see her. It could be weeks.” You may not have a sister. You probably know no one in Australia. And yet, you’ll be taken completely seriously. I personally like to use excuses that couldn’t possibly pertain to my actual life; this way, Karma can’t teach me a lesson by turning my lies into reality. That’s right, I outsmarted Karma. Pretty impressive indeed.

The point is, schneeping is fun…and in college, it’s easy. If you don’t schneep, good for you! But if you do, the Boston Common is the place to do it. It’s gorgeous out, and Bostonians are no longer hiding from the soul-destroying weather and have finally emerged. The promise of spring is infecting everyone with delight, and it’s especially contagious here. If you want to feel less guilty about missing class, simply sprawl out on a bench with your textbook. Think of what you’d be doing in class: watching the second hand, tapping your pencil, perhaps being sprinkled with drops of your prof’s saliva? This option is smarter and far less painful.

Happy Schneeping!

Below: The Boston Common