I remember how I felt before the start of my first year at Vassar: palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy, etc. etc. And I imagine that many of you are probably feeling a similar mix of nerves and excitement to start college, where everything will be new and shiny (unless you live in Raymond) and the possibilities are fucking endless, where you’ll finally meet people who just get it, you know? and where no one will judge your obscure passion for collecting mothballs from old Victorian houses or taking shots of Jägermeister with an added dollop of mayonnaise.
We all have our quirks.
In truth, I envy all of you. You get to experience Vassar for the first time just as I and many of the other Miscellany News editors are struggling to hold on for one last year before we’re flung into society like an unwanted fish catapulted back into the sea. You’ll befriend your fellow group, get into the occasional tiff with them, watch as some of them embark on the awkward and confusing path of fellowcest (and witness how said fellowcest will tear your foundational friend group asunder); it’s gonna be just like when Degrassi attempted to “go there” with college!
You’ll spend hours talking about how beautiful the campus is in spite of the construction, how you have to pull an all-nighter to finish that two-page paper you knew about for two weeks and, if you’re anything like me (dear God, I hope not), you’ll spend countless hours eating ramen alone in your bed for no particular reason other than the fear you have of asking other people to Deece with you.
But don’t feel bad for me, I mastered the technique of making ramen in a coffee maker!
Of course, instead of papers many of us are crying about the GRE, graduate school, theses and finding employment, but I suppose some of these things never change (I hardly ever use my coffee maker for caffeinated purposes). Still, as you move into your senior year many of the gripes you once had feed into your nostalgia and love of Vassar. In three years time you’ll be entering your senior year, and that’s even stranger to me because in three years I’ll be turning 25 and probably selling my short stories for nickels on a street corner somewhere. I’m not saying I’ll be homeless, but I am not denying that I might be living with a felon named Jim-Bob because the rent is dirt cheap.
Such is life.
I do have a point, and it’s a cliche one: Enjoy the hell out of your time here at Vassar, so that once you reach Senior Year: The Final Frontier, you’ll be able to look back over these three years and view them as building blocks. No, you don’t have to love everything about this place or the circumstances life throws your way—that’s just flat out impossible. And you’re gonna fuck up quite a bit in that time, hurt people you care about, etc. etc. It happens.
Then again, maybe none of this will happen to you. I’m an English major, not a psychic.
Now, please excuse me while I listen to “Landslide” and weep my way into senior year.
Editor’s Note: If you are even the teensiest interested in writing for the humor section, think you are a funny person, don’t think you are a funny person but somehow find that everyone in your close circle of friends laughs at you constantly, or maybe think you are a funny person but seem to only make people cry—whatever experience levels of humor you can bring to the best page in the Misc, get in touch with yours truly (me, not the restaurant) at firstname.lastname@example.org.