Dillo Day. It’s that time of year in late May when it may or may not be snowing. The free pizza tastes great, but so does all the other shit you may or may not have eaten. One thing is so certain that even Heisenberg wouldn’t question you: if you are from around here, you’ll see all those people from high school you thought you’d never see again. You know, the kids who don’t know who Heisenberg is.

They’ll act all surprised to see you, which is strange because you go to Northwestern. You’ll say it’s nice to see you too and regret not sneaking in alcohol taped to your uppermost, innermost thigh like your friend did. (Friend. An interesting word, no? I think friend can be defined as someone you would be happy to see on Dillo Day.)

Then they’ll want to know where the alcohol is. You are stuck like a freshman scared of jaywalking on Sheridan. Of course you know where alcohol is, that is an inane question. It is Dillo Day. But you don’t want to lie. You’ve already lied once by saying you’re happy to see these numbskulls. You’re worried about karma — and unlike that kid from your high school, you still have finals.

You sigh. “Yeah,” you say, “just go up to the SigEp house and say Morty Shapiro sent you.”

You part ways. The spring returns to your step as you realize that if Nelly couldn’t ruin Dillo Day, your loser classmates don’t have a chance.