Sometimes I hate being 17. Correction: most of the time I hate being 17. The only time I ever confidently claim my age is when I’m sucking up to old people who are absolutely impressed by how a 17-year-old youngin’ got her way into college a year before her peers. Besides them, everyone loves to patronize me.
“OMG. You were only nine months old when 9/11 happened?” My roommate, Flower Hussain, brilliantly deduced in front of all of her friends. We were on the top floor of Mellwitt Hall in room 410, and the gathering of girls were blown away at the prospect of a 17-year-old attending their institution.