There wasn’t even a question in her mind, she was “destined” to go to NYU. Oh even the sound of the collegiate acronym makes her stand a little straighter in her Ugg boots and raise her chin proudly (as if she were looking over the Hudson to her parents bi-level in Essex County). N. Y. U. Those three letters are just so elite, so efficient in their minimalism, so… perfect. She was sure that other “universities” had acronyms as well, but no others looked so “fashionable” on a hoody sweatshirt with Marc Jacobs sunglasses, Chip and Pepper jeans, and a Zara overcoat while strolling around the East Village. But to even refer to NYU as a “university” belittles the whole mystique of its existence. Being a NYU student is the $200,000 pass to switch sexualities, mock the lower classes through the flaunting of parental-purchased absurd outfits, and celebrate your gay, multi-ethnic film major friend’s bohemian documentary as a commemoration of having conquered “the city.”
