So, Hoyas, the Spirit has a confession to make. I didn't use to be an elitist ass$@#! before I settled in this quaint colonial-Brigadoon village with no metro station, pesky cobblestones, neighborhood ordinances, and slow tourist-pedestrians who won't get out of my way. But things have changed. Every time we Hoyas venture out into commercial Georgetown, we feel like the subject of a Discovery Channel special:
"Ah...the Georgetown Hoya in her natural habitat," Tim Curry narrates, "Watch closely and behold this fragile creature. With a Vineyard Vines tote and pasty pale skin, she has learned to brave these disheveled brick sidewalks in 3-inch heels. Armed with her Saxby's British Islander and a bottle of Klonopin, she can handle any situation on these streets. Well...I hope that homeless man stops chasing after her. Do you think this one goes to Georgetown University? Could she be a Hoya? How divine."
Oh my God, we are so tired of making eye contact with strangers (What are sunglasses for?!) and being gawked at by that PG County family window-shopping on a Sunday at the Coogi (What the hell is that, btw?) store on Wisconsin like we're some limited edition, "Ivory Tower" Barbie Dolls complete with Hunter rain boots. Can't a Hoya just wear her Hermès scarf and Prada loafers in peace?! And whatever happened to those post-church donuts or Sunday morning brunch? God, I'm such a tool, but I feel entitled.
P.S. Btw, is there a colloquial word for those African-American lesbians with dreadlocks? They all look the same. No, seriously.