Yes, freshman That Kid ruined the curve again. He can’t help it that he got a 107 because of the extra credit limerick he wrote. But in his defense, he literally lives in Olin. Not the way you claim to live in Olin, though, which lacks commitment; sometimes, you leave to go to class or to sleep in your own bed. He actually carries a cot in his backpack and hides out in the B Stacks each night so that he can absorb more knowledge through osmosis. He has, in fact, evolved past sleep because his mind is too precious a gem to be wasted in unconscious slumber (he figured it out last semester through one of his research projects). And while we’re on the subject of his research, they call him an RA, but he’s basically the PI’s bestie. She wants him to do an accelerated Ph.D. program and help her figure out the algorithmic problem that’s holding her back right now.

But don’t feel bad about yourself, average one. You may only have a 3.9 and an internship at Google and an IQ of 153, but you do have some things going for you. Kid wasn’t just born this way. He worked for it—like, a lot harder than you, actually. Not only did he emerge from the womb and go directly to Kumon (with a Mozart soundtrack playing in the background for optimal development of mathematical concepts), he also did a bi-coastal, college-prep enrichment program where he attended both Exeter and Harvard-Westlake because one set of courses wasn’t enough to challenge him. And don’t get him started on his independent research project that he had Kit Mao review personally while he was still clad in a pre-frosh nametag.

Perhaps you’re wondering how Kid does it. How does he use the same 24 hours that Beyonce has to accomplish so much more than even Bey could imagine? You might think he has a secret IV of caffeine underneath the hoodie he’s pulling off effortlessly, but in fact his own fear of inadequacy is the driving force behind his perfectionism. Yes, beneath his blithe exterior lies a severe case of penis envy. But even beneath that lies an anxiety condition, which has been evaluated with more intellectual prowess than your own. He and his team of therapists have been analyzing its source since before you were sentient—he was born so cognitively developed as to actually avoid infantile amnesia. So, basically, he even wins at his particularly elevated case of 20-something angst.

But if there were a way that Kid wished he could improve, which in truth there is not because he is entirely self-satisfied and fulfilled (socially, academically, romantically, existentially, spiritually and even ecumenically), it would be to develop his acumen for not pissing people the f— off. At the end of the day, for all his accomplishments, for all his analyses, he is, in fact, hated by all those he encounters. No, you’re not welcome on our news feeds, That Kid. Nor in the newspaper, nor in the Record, nor in our casual on-campus encounters where you claim to be “just so busy,” nor in our discussion sections where you interrupt the professor to share your oh-so-valid opinion, nor, finally, in our lecture classes where your name is the only one anyone knows because you ask a question every single f—— class.

We’re over you, That Kid. Call us when you win a Nobel, but until then, go back into the lab you crawled out of. We’re done.