It happened in the stir-fry line. There I was, waiting patiently, when the realization hit me: Upper Spring had finally arrived. Just as I considered this daunting fact, I approached the counter and told the chef, “Chicken, please.” This was the moment we have all been waiting for, the challenge of surviving the final term of Upper Year, the period of an Andover student’s career commonly referred to as “the Age of Hell.” “It was not that bad,” they said. “You can do this,” they said. But here I stand, and suddenly all these underclassmen onlookers around me are like, “Man up, man!” Really?! Why is it not manly to cry?! I feel like a feminist, and I think I like it! How did things get this far? Here I am with four subjects left and a research paper due that’s supposed to be longer than the weekly email about the fact that there should be sNOw backyard barbecues. Yes, I’m being a real downer for an Upper, but I am just depleted after putting so much blood, sweat and teriyaki sauce into this 10-page paper!