Nine Signs you DEFINITELY Go to Northwestern
- You own tons of Northwestern apparel. From sweatshirts to water bottles to underwear (oops!!), you could rock head-to-toe purple pride if necessary.
You have a WILDcard. Every NU student has one—so you must go here! You probably found it on the ground during your daily walks through campus. Speaking of which…
- You’re on campus all the time. You visit everyday (except Morty’s birthday, on which you fast and hold vigil on his lawn) and change your walking patterns so the same people don’t see you twice!
- No one knows Northwestern trivia like you. Don’t know who founded the anthropology department in 1928*? You disgraceful fuck. Drop out and give your spot to someone who deserves it.
- Your parents always tell you that you don’t go here. And you tell them to stop treating you like a child and they say you’re 15 and then I lock myself in my room and snort purple glitter. (This is reverse-psychology reminding you how lucky you are to be a wildcat).
You love Morty. You’ve talked to him so many times in your lucid dreams that you practically know what he smells like (Jövan Musk). He’s so engaging. He pats your head and says you’re the son he never had. Just kidding, he has a son. That was to fish out the fakers. You don’t love Morty. You don’t even know what love means. Disgusting trash.
- You’ve slept in every dorm. Only a few people have found you under their bed, but since you know all the dorm stairwell maps by heart, campus police have never gotten there in time to catch you. But now you go here, because you deserve it, and you’ve worked so hard for this, and you definitely go here.
- Your entire body is covered in Northwestern tattoos. Ever seen Christopher Nolan’s Memento? Like that, but with the lyrics to the Alma Mater and a scan-able WILDcard barcode. You probably tried scarification, too, but, sadly, blood isn’t purple.
- You love the cold weather. Everyone sleeps outside in the winter! It’s one of those crazy wildcat traditions. As you snuggle up in your Eno on the Lakefill, a pelt of Willie the Wildcat’s fur warming your purple painted loins, you don’t think of how you’ll explain your hypothermia at the Searle. You think of Morty.
*It’s Melville J. Herskovits, idiot .