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I think that if you went to Harvard you could get away with sending in a used napkin with "Harvard graduate" and your phone number scribbled on it in crayon and you'd get an interview. For the mere mortals, it's some sort of nightmare cotillion where you're wearing a hand-me-down dress, your escort is missing, and if no one asks you to dance your white picket dreams will be shattered.
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traguna macoities tracorum satis de
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