After four years as a Stanford English major, I have learned many things and have much wisdom to pass on. The profundity of my reflection could hardly be contained in the weak vessel of a retrospective op-ed. Given this, and the high premium we English majors place on specificity and economy, I devote this space to a brief plea: Stanford, it is time to revamp the metaphors we live by.

First, an introduction. If you are moved to write a treatise of love, or find yourself struggling to articulate an abstraction, or wish to impress upon people that you are well educated, you may find yourself desirous of a metaphor. Metaphors, you see, are rhetorical tools that allow us to do all these things and more. Wikipedia explains that metaphors are "an indirect comparison between two or more seemingly unrelated subjects" in order to suggest a similarity. Instead of "I feel ill" you can say, "My bowels are an inferno of noxious gasses." In fact, you should.

What you may not realize is that everyday lingo offers us the opportunity to make metaphorical connections. The joy of the metaphor is the way it enriches our ability to express ourselves. The danger is that metaphors are rife with the potential for misunderstanding. At Stanford, the metaphors we live by are terribly ambiguous.

Let's begin with nicknames. NSO touts our double-syllable mania, and indoctrinates the new students with the painfully uncreative nicknames like "Big Game" or "The Band." Though a bit predictable, these names save us time so that we can conserve valuable syllables. The problems arise elsewhere. For instance, why is Stanford called "The Farm"? The land used to be a horse farm. Yet Stanford is actually not a farm, despite our "Alphabet Soup" website that claims "Once a farm, always a farm." I'm no linguist, but I'm pretty sure the expression is "Once a farmer, always a farmer." If our version was generalized, imagine the proportion of the country that would qualify: Manhattan started being developed from farmland not too long before Stanford was founded. And why "The Dish?" "The Dish" is a walk through the hills near a radio telescope. However, "dish" can also be a meal or a cute girl. If I say, "Do you want to do the dish?" what do I mean? These ambiguities could be dangerously misleading.

Or the campus bubble. Let's be honest, bubbles have been done<\p>--

Yale, Cal, and UCLA all have bubbles. Worse, there are economic bubbles, stock market bubbles, and Michael Jackson's chimpanzee. Why a bubble? Bubbles are round, they have a soapy sheen, they are popular at weddings, and they pop when you touch them. One passage of "Words of Wisdom" on the UAL website claims: "The Stanford campus bubble adds a nice cushion of safety." To be clear: bubbles don't cushion, cushions cushion. A bubble would make a very ineffectual cushion. We need a better word: a protective layer with cushioning, isolating properties. I've done a bit of research, and I think "cellulose insulation" might work (sustainable, sound proof), but I haven't figured out how to idiom-ize it yet. Will keep posted.

Finally, a legitimate non-nickname metaphor we are wont to use on campus: ducks. I appreciate the urge to raise awareness with mental health problems by using the "Duck Syndrome" metaphor. I think the sentiment is worthwhile, but ducks? Ducks are seriously abused in the world of idioms: "a lame duck," "a dead duck," or "a sitting duck" (which doesn't sound violent except that it means easy to physically or verbally attack). Plus, there are already a number of other duck syndromes: baby duck syndrome has to do with beginner's use of operating systems, toy duck syndrome is about corporate strategy, and New Duck Syndrome, which is a bacterial disease that can cause listlessness and eye discharge in ducks. Sad.

I criticize because I love. Stanford's already the radiant Olympus of Silicon Valley, but the icing on the cake of perfection would be harnessing the power of metaphor to truly do it justice.