I have a secret to share with you. Ready? I hate writing these letters. I'm not particularly funny (at least on purpose). I'm not witty or clever or profound. I'm just me. And as you've learned this year, I love TV for tweens, emo music from middle school and poop jokes, and I mention my mom in almost all of these.

But that's not what this space is for. It's to show editorial prowess. That I am great. That I deserve these 350 words every week. Well, I don't. I am nothing without the people listed below: my editors who became my friends who became my 3 a.m. dysfunctional family. I guess that means I'm the creepy grandma who gives socks for Christmas and refuses to let go of her 21–year–old love affair with a magazine.

I can rock that.

And Street is nothing without you, readers. I thank you. Thank you for submitting Shoutouts. Thank you for voting for Best of Penn. Thank you for being our Egos of the Week. Thank you for hating Cultural Elite. Thank you for commenting on our website. Thank you for reading Under the Button. Thank you for tweeting at us. Thank you for tipping us on gossip. Thank you for DIYing with us. Thank you for dining with us. Thank you for having sex to the music we recommend. Thank you for thinking we're stupid. Thank you for thinking we're wonderful. We love you. We need you. We can't survive without you.

This last letter marks the end of my run (OK, a jog) as Editor–in–Chief. As much as I dread these letters, I wish I had one more. I wish I had a thousand more, because that would mean a thousand more issues of Street, and a thousand more weeks at Penn. But I do not. And it's time for someone else to take the reins. I can't tell you yet who you will get to know next semester, but I can tell you she (yes, it will be another babe) will be magnificent. Bless her in the way you've blessed me. By sticking around.

To Street, I leave you the memories of 7 a.m. drop offs, VHS porn, secret garden photoshoots, glitter lips, topless pictures, lots and lots of beer and tequila, room 719 at the Sheraton, thick black–rimmed glasses, Kerry, Julia and SB. We will forever be on the roof.

Street your heart out,