UGA gives Yale a run for its money for Most Embarrassing Orientation Video Ever. I mean…red polos? Ke$ha?

Are you 4serious?

It was announced last Thursday that keyed Adobe products are no longer available on the FAS Software Downloads website. This means no more free Photoshop, Illustrator, or Dreamweaver for students. This means students will have to resort to using Harvard’s computers to access this software for free. This means students will have to resort to looking at fugly ass posters. This mean students will have to resort to pirating the eff out of everything.

Rumors have made the rounds that Adobe simply asked for way too much money ($5mill) in licensing their products to Harvard. And with Harvard’s budget in the craphole, Harvard was like, “LOL THAT’S RILL  FUNNY, FORGET IT.”

Let’s pour out some liquor for the aesthetically pleasing posters, programs, websites, etc. that will never make it into this world. Or our campus. Whatever.

If you’re going to “officially license” our name, you could at least give credit where it’s due.

I’M JUST SAYING.

[EDIT: order has been restored] Read the rest of this entry »

We get a lot of crazy people submitting to Harvard FML. Mostly high school students. Who are extremely confused about the fact that Harvard FML is indeed, only for Harvard students.

And then sometimes we get this:

Yeah, so anyway.

These accounts may or may not be descriptive of real life.

Tuesday 3:48 p.m. Wow, I really need to start packing. They pick up my stuff on Thursday morning, you know? Like I have so much stuff, you don’t understand. It takes up the entire common room. All of it. I have taken over the common room. My belongings. They are the common room.

Wednesday 11:45 a.m. So much for getting anything done yesterday except for watching Kick-Ass online and going to a party that could not have survived on party dialysis. I’m just going to watch a few more episodes of Daria and then I’ll be good to go. I’ll be ready to put on my bandanna and hoist boxes as though I’m out of an episode of Home Improvement. All the characters will be there. In my mind of course, because no one will be helping me on this solo journey. All I have are my neck, my back…cue the song.

Wednesday 6:15 p.m. Going to dinner. Successively watched Daria all day and the movie Trainspotting, which MIND YOU is t.e.r.r.i.f.y.i.n.g. I mean I was bothered. Not hot and bothered. But bothered in a disturbed kind of way. But it did kind of revive the Scottish accent for me. And when I say revive I mean Ewan McGregor is really attractive.

Wednesday 9:01 p.m. Ok, the first cardboard box hath been bottom-taped. Time to begin…

Wednesday 9:04 p.m. My back is throwed. Not thrown. Throwed. #imbeingdramatic

Wednesday 9:35 p.m. DAMMIT I JUST PACKED MY HEAVIEST BOX WITH ALL THE BOOKS IN IT UPSIDE DOWN. I figured the only way to remedy this situation since there was no way in this Wetu-vandalizing age that I was going to unpack that elephant trunk, was to write a short but meaningful apology note in Sharpie on the side of the box with ubiquitous arrows indicating that if you turn this baby over you are going to crush something important. IT MIGHT BE A KITTEN.

Wednesday 9:58 p.m. One of the stacks of boxes has reached the ceiling. I repeat, one of the stacks has reached the ceiling. No, I don’t live in a Hobbit cave. THIS IS REAL LIFE.

Wednesday 10:18 p.m. Who, seriously, has a customized Muppet. In college. At Harvard. Oh wait. I do. #hisnameiscarlos

Wednesday 10:28 p.m. I just found a miniature bowling set sent via a care package from my brilliant mother. No, they are not bowling pins. They are shaped as scared children, that when I ascribe them names and personalities based on their horrified faces I can almost hear the pre-pubescent screams of when they are knocked down by the provided bouncy red ball. Did I spend at least ten minutes bowling with myself and not for Columbine? Yes. I also got the ginger kid every time. I’m like M.I.A. you guys! M.I.A.! #thatvideowascontroversial

Wednesday 10:49 p.m. I don’t know how I can do this for much longer. I have not even started clothes. CLOTHES. I’m still on trinkets. TRINKETS. From my desk, from my Muppet collection, cups, important things like an inordinate number of unnecessary pillows that I justified under the banner of DÉCOR…

Wednesday 11:13 p.m. Did I note that the bandanna is on? Like red, Rosie the Riveter bandanna. It’s on my head. I am perspiring. There is sweat from packing. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to become Doug circa the hit nineties animated series. My closet will consist of the same outfits daily and I will live a minimalist life. Next year when you see me walking around EXPECT A GREEN SWEATER VEST. And whistling, with that chikatapahchikatachikatapapa from the end of the song. You know what I’m talking about. But I’m keeping the television. And the fridge. And…Carlos.

Wednesday 11:27 p.m. Since when did mattress pads take up a whole box? I swear I put it in the box and it started growing like that scene out of Alien where an actual alien punctures through lady lady’s estomach—but instead of a green figurine this was just foam expanding into the stratosphere forever. The only thing that could make this ordeal better were if the cast of Friends showed up and gave me a personal rendition of the Friends Movie that needs to be made (ARE YOU READING THIS HOLLYWOOD? You can make two Sex and the City movies but not ONE Friends movie? I don’t see your logic. Kill it with fire. Etc.)

Wednesday 11:54 p.m. It’s nearly Thursday. They pick up these boxes on Thursday. I am still not on clothes.

Thursday 12:01 a.m. Oh look what day it is. I would submit an FML if I still had a life to F. My life now consists of the sound of tape ripping itself from tape and being stretched onto boxes. It is a horrible noise. It sounds like an animal is dying in this room every 12 minutes, approximately. There are so many boxes in here right now. So many. I haven’t even printed the labels to go on the boxes. This room looks like a play fort from a warped room in Michael Jackson’s house where he would be like “go on little kids run into the room of boxes…foreverrrrr”

Thursday 12:18 a.m. gunfaceboom #help

Thursday 12:48 a.m. Ok, I’m onto clothes. I AM.

Thursday 1:09 a.m. When did I acquire a pink wig? No I’m really not kidding. Where did this come from? Is anyone missing a pink wig? I mean it’s fierce. I may be wearing it.

Thursday 1:29 a.m. So, I wasn’t planning on donating clothes…because I have attachment issues and am apparently a horrible person. But, in lieu of exhaustion and decreasing sentiments of separation anxiety from such items as a True Blood O-positive t-shirt, some of these babies are bypassing the boxes and going straight into the circulation of giving and love. You’re welcome.

Thursday 2:15 a.m. Oh my God the bed has to be re-bunked. (I mean I can’t CLIMB to go to sleep every night, I injured myself in the yoga rotation of P.E. in high school. Let’s get real). Paging all British boys that live below me, a.k.a. one.

Thursday 2:36 a.m. So helpful. So British. So Helpful British. That should be a song. Or a national anthem addition. Maybe they’re being helpful to make up for the taxation thing. #teapartyguilt18thcentury

Thursday 3:04 a.m. I’m nearly done with this. I am basically stripped down to a bikini, bandana, and pink wig, and if anyone across from me can see what’s going on in here they must think there’s a really effed up individual screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show going on but I have reached a level of NO SHAME mixed with APATHY mixed with I KIND OF LIKE THIS LOOK.

Thursday 3:46 a.m. Labels printed. Affixed. Passing out starfish style on the futon. I would pass out on the boxes to be really hardcore and claim them in a territorial manner but that would do nothing but give me further back problems and squish squish squish against Carlos and he doesn’t like that except when it’s September.

Thursday 7:39 a.m. Awake, have to be on call. They come anywhere between 8 a.m. and noon today. So I have to be ready. This is as close to becoming a doctor as I’ll ever be. The whole on call thing. No, no one is injured in here. Except me. I’m injured. Free massages welcome.

Thursday 11:46 a.m. They just called. I’m the last stop. The must have looked at the inventory. I hope they updated it. Because it’s at 29 now. Yeah 29. Ride on that number. Oh my God they’re going to be horrified. I should have bought cool lemonade. Or made thank you cards. Or invited Oprah so she could pop out of one of the vacant side rooms and give everyone a car! But I dreamt big a little too late. Cue JoJo.

Thursday 11:50 a.m. Horror. Their faces are filled with horror. I apologized all the way up the stairs. The whole way. I tried to cushion the blow of what they were about to see. “No, I’m not an international student.” That happened.

Thursday 12:06 p.m. They’re in front of the dorm now after taking out the last item—a huge futon frame. It’s all sitting in front like either a) a garage sale or b) someone just got hardcore dumped from a serious four to five year relationship and had all of their S.O.’s belongings taken outside of the building to display a sense of betrayal and heartbrokenness. But it’s over. IT’S OVER. I have worn out at least half of my vertebrae but at least the bending and snapping is done for at least another 12 hours before I bust that move out at the next opportunity to dance publicly. Now it’s just me and the bunnies of dust. They’re really large bunnies FYI. I was considering naming one Carlos Jr., but he would be mortally offended if his namesake was to go to such a disposable creature…that doesn’t even resemble a bunny #seriouslywhonamedlargeamountsofdustthat?

Thursday 12:07 p.m. I don’t leave for another two days. I have nowhere to sleep. I’m going bond with the runaways in the square. Maybe I’ll get tatted up so I can fit in and survive the streets for the next forty-eight hours. If anyone has ever watched A&E they will know, as I do, that the first forty-eight hours following a crime are the most crucial in garnering evidence.

Start.

Now.

While we were in the first floor reading room finishing an Expos paper due at midnight, we witnessed some shocking, random, and hilarious displays of intense exhibitionism.  Perhaps our Gmail outbox best represents the events in the hour leading up to Primal Scream:

10:52 PM:

There currently is a girl across from me in Lamont who has been taking off article of clothing by article of clothing while studying.  This has taken place over more than a half hour.  She is now down to literally just her underwear.

Nobody has reacted.  I actually don’t think many people have noticed.

Oh, wait…there are multiple girls doing it.

I think, at least five.  This girl across from me is the least afraid and got down to bra and panties first.  But another one just took her shirt off and three more are definitely on their way.

Anybody know what is happening?

Shit, paper due in an hour.  Focus, focus, focus…

Reply:

I think what’s happening is that you’re getting mentally tired and hallucinating what you want to see.

Read the rest of this entry »

#1: Miley Cyrus’s new music video. Homegirl needs to chill and quit trying to be like Rihanna/GaGa/Britney and stick with making music vids in sparkly tunics and leggings. YOU ARE FIFTEEN YEARS OLD*, for Godssake.

*We actually don’t know how old she is, nor do we care.

#2: Tyra Banks pretends she’s rabid. Yeah, exactly what you think it is.

HOLD THE PHONE — Harvard Med School students produced a Lady GaGa video titled…wait for it, Lab Romance.

Prepare yourself for the nerdiest video of all time. We especially enjoyed the pan shots of the glowing petri dishes. Very GaGa.

Yeah, something like that.

According to several undisclosed sources–

The Bee Club (for freshmen: it’s a female final club) is in trouble. The club emailed male members of final clubs today asking for donations. The reason? The Chabad offered The Fly Club for Gentlemen $6 million for the house on 45 Dunster Street, which they currently rent out to The Bee.

According to the sources, the sale is still up in the air. Some say the sale is highly unlikely, as Fly alumni have daughters in The Bee Club.

But to sum up the irony for you: some of the richest girls on campus are begging rich boyz for money. DISCUSS.

Addendum: Note witty title and appreciate.

EDIT: These are not confirmed facts. If you have any more information regarding the topic, you can email thehvoicemail@gmail.com. Check back for more updates.

Well coming straight from the Yale Alumni Magazine:

“After more than a quarter century of debate, Yale faculty members are now barred from sexual relationships with undergraduates—not just their own students, but any Yale undergrads.”

First of all, we didn’t know this was even allowed down there in New Haven. Second, we think this is seriously hilarious. Third, “Previously, the university had prohibited such relationships only when the faculty member had “direct pedagogical or supervisory responsibilities” over the student. That remains the rule for affairs between faculty and graduate or professional students, and between grad students and undergrads.” Fourth, seriously…L.O.L.

Who knew everyone was so hott for teacher?

Last I checked, Harvard was situated in Massachusetts, not southern Asia, so why do we seem to be in the middle of a hearty monsoon season? For the record, unlike at other schools and businesses Harvard classes and activities are canceled for nothing, so pull on your wellies, attempt to resurrect your pathetic umbrella out of whatever origami shape the wind has folded it into, and try not to drown in the ocean formerly known as Harvard Yard. It’s sad and it’s nasty, but we’re in Cambridge, so it WILL happen again.