I remember once I had a good friend, Dave R. He was a promising young Mathematician. The kid could have been anything: an actuary, a math teacher, a guy who counts things, anything.

One night I came back to the house early, and walked into Dave's room, and there he was, all by himself, deriving alone. I don't know which of us was more embarrassed by the situation, as he desperately tried to cover up his math notebook while sputtering some bullshit about "writing down some Grand Theft Auto codes," and I took a sudden interest in examining the carpet. He could say whatever he wanted, but his eyes told the truth. There was a lonely, geeky sadness to them that said "help me."

I tried to get him out of the house after that. I tried to get him to try sports, go to parties, anything normal. He even seemed to be making progress when one night, after telling him I'd be up north for the weekend, I came home early to check on him. I stepped around the kitchen corner, and there he was: a wine cooler popped open, a TI-88 on the counter, and a pad full of derivatives sprawled shamefully in front of him. Neither of us spoke. The silence dangled in the air upon his cloud of shame. After some moments, I nodded sadly, turned around, and walked out into the night.

I never saw Dave again, because I don't hang with nerds. I hope this story serves as a lesson to any aspiring math majors out there: Don't Drink and Derive. You are already a big enough geek, trying to make it cool just makes you worse.

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