Fall has been antsy. First it was snowing. Then it was 60. Then it was frigid. And sometimes it’s lukewarm and rainy. That unexplainable fall smell, the misleading scent that softens our senses and tricks us into Nor’easter season, didn’t linger, but came and went. Temperature be damned, these things have held true: like all New Englanders I’ve sacrificed coming home without a sunset so I don’t have to wake up in the pitch black. I stress and grumble over inefficient windows that let the heat out and the cold in. There are not enough hooks between me and my roommate for the various jackets for various temperatures (denim for those warm fronts, down for mornings when it should illegal to be out of bed, shells for the wind, and fleece for active days). But as long as there is tea and lattes there is hope—sort of—for surviving until March.