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Clock­tower (Photo: Flickr)

Choose life. Choose a college. Choose classes. Choose the arcana of the stu­dentry — pencils, high­lighters, book darts, and the Burton Raffel trans­lation of “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” Choose your friends. Choose matching Under Armour leg­gings and never rock Filas. Choose Netflix; ditch chill. Choose a seven-hour marathon of “The Office” punc­tuated by 15-minute intervals of frantic attempts to assemble a coherent anno­tated bib­li­og­raphy for Pro­fessor of English Justin Jackson. Choose freaking out at the beginning, middle, and end of each semester, becoming a hazard to your roommate’s sanity and an aural slave to Frank Ocean’s Balmain yelps. Choose internship appli­ca­tions, meetings with Pro­fessor of History Paul Rahe about your future in public policy, and the con­stant dread that all of this — All Of This — will cul­minate in a white collar Phoenix-based waste man­agement job that leaves you in the lurch of the col­lective longing that is history. Choose your future. Choose life.

But why would you want to do a thing like that? We chose not to let anxiety guide our semesters or our lives. We chose a loving com­munity that makes this place a home, even if only for a short while. Yeah, choose that.