Hello. Welcome back, and if you are new to us, you are probably picking up on something right about now.Thursday = 34th Street. Sort of like how the ancient Mayans kept a calendar using the sun and the moon, you now have an Arts & Entertainment magazine to help you do the calculations that it is Thursday.
It is Thursday. Hot dog. Throw out your planner. You are set for life, or at least your time at Penn.
So. This is where I get to give my little 300 words about, well, pretty much anything I want. This week, the basics: I am a senior. Although this topic is trite and overdone, I am going to hit it one more time, hard, like a hammer. Bang.
Alright, I am a senior and dealing with my day-to-day crisis of a) thinking I am not going to graduate b) hoping I will not graduate c) vomiting a little each time someone asks me about my plans or d) imagining all the cool stuff I could have bought with about $165,000 bones (especially in a developing country - I could live like a decadent dictator at the very least). I digress.
The true point of this letter and $120,000 invested is to say, well, my liberal arts education seems to have prepared me to do such things as a) fold paper b) make photocopies, but not faxes, I am not that advanced or c) make lists where I demonstrate my ability to say the alphabet A-G if it is a serious list. On a good day, A-D. Max.
As my learning curve (see figure Ia) has plateaued, I still pull on the rightside door of Logan Hall (admit it, you do it too) and, still to my amazement, it is locked. Every time. without fail.
Delighted as I am about the delightful turn of events that led me to being a senior, it is sure to be a waterslide's amount of fun for a year. To sum, as most sums are summed:A haiku
Senior year is great.
After this year, much bad news.
Refrigerator.
