Jen died. Joey went with Pacey (That bitch!). Jack got with Pacey's brother. And Dawson got to direct his own show, The Creek. And so it goes. Adolescence is over. Time to throw away all those Oxy wipes, because I won't be needing them anymore! I'm all grown up now. Before I make my quick exit to go and run Vanity Fair, I figured I would impart to you as much wisdom as I can fit into this 3" x 4" space one last time.
But finales are hard to write. I don't want this to end with all of us sitting around in some jail cell. Or by pulling the "Closed" sign down at my bar.
During my tenure, this column has progressed from me writing about me to me writing about you. Screw that trend. I need to vent. Throughout this semester, I have found myself in one of three situations. Situation A goes something like this: While innocently walking down Spruce one night, I run into two of my classmates who are on their way to do dirrty things. Before divulging the intimate details of their sex lives, they preface their tale with the statement, "You cannot put anything about this in Street." All I can say is that they didn't get grass stains.
Situation B involves all the self-promoting damn dirty whores who view this magazine as another forum for social climbing. (Note: This includes roughly half of the staff.) At parties, these personality types greet me with a kiss on each cheek before chattering, "OK, like, you HAVE to put pictures of me at my party in Street this week."
Situation C deals with the Cultural Elite. Prior to last week, everyone accosted me about including them in the list. Post-Elite, I have to deal with everyone who didn't make the list, which for anyone who isn't a math major, is one hell of a lot of people.
Dear everyone at Penn: I'm really flattered that so many of you are reading my magazine, but you're taking us a little too seriously. We're just trying to provide you with some weekly entertainment. In response to anyone who has ever had a problem with this magazine: We were only kidding. Save those complaints for when we're a little more powerful.
To my fan club, I know you are going to miss me. Who wouldn't? But I offer you one consolation: I'm running to be a DP columnist next semester. That means I will have roughly twice as many words each week in which to ruminate about Penn. And myself. See you in the Spring.
