Roll out of bed in the morning and my “Finding Nemo” clock says I’m already 15 minutes late. Whoops. Fumbling around in my closet, I grab the first shirt my fingers touch and pull it on before hurrying out the door. Cold. Too cold. Is it lunchtime yet?

Is this shirt inside out? Glance down and realize I’m wearing my letters. Is it just me, or is that chick throwing me some serious shade? Angst, angst, angst. I probably look like a follower, an Elle Woods clone. Maybe I should zip up my jacket …

No. I like this shirt. My pledge mommy gave it to me — gah, she’s so cool. What a woman. When’s the last time we hung out? Should probably text her. I send her a kissy emoji. Is that weird? That’s not weird.

Further down Sheridan, I pass my sisters. They wave, and I give myself a mental pat on the back. See? I do take pride in my letters. I am an engaged member of this campus. I am … late for class.

Sneak into the lecture room. Professor glances up. Great. Why did I wear this shirt? The letters draw scrutiny when all I want to do is sit down, absorb knowledge and fantasize about Dunkin’ Donuts.

Class ends. Escape to Norris. At last. I am an anonymous face in the crowd. Munching on a perfectly-toasted bagel, I realize no one is looking at me. No one cares. I like this shirt, and … I just got cream cheese on it.

Looks like I need to change.

If you want to publicize your Greek event or file a complaint or bestow a compliment (hey, it could happen), please contact me at [email protected]. Follow me at @BadBroderick because Medill told me I need to make myself a marketable brand.