A real man does not cry. So when I collapse into explosive, blubbering bursts of snotty soul-anguish periodically over the next few days, I am going to make sure my 14-year-old sister Lanier is not around.

At this point in our relationship, my status as a big brother depends largely on extended deterrence. How long could she be expected to stay in her place as noogey-taker/lackey if she sees me writhing on the ground gurgling, “But I never took Anthropology”?

Even I’m going to want to kick myself in the head. My parents will understand, however, because they have known me to be a softy since day one. I can already forecast my dad’s reaction. “Cry all you want, kid. My checkbook is singing!”

You fair readers might not believe that a statuesque scholar-giant such as I could ever be reduced to wailing reminiscent of a little girl with her knee skinned and her freshly slain puppy in her arms. But I am going to be a wreck during this graduation thing. I even got emotional finishing my senior essay, although the emotions involved were fear and panic.

During my 18th consecutive hour of working on the damn thing, hopped up on Diet Coke, my hands went numb, and I could no longer feel my heart beating. Angina pectoris it wasn’t, but it was revealing of my current state of mind.

I’m going to miss you Yale. To all my friends, teachers and other folks that have proven so special as to cause me an imagined heart attack, I wish you all the best. Let me leave you with this last tidbit of my worldly knowledge: Stay out of jail. While the menu will be the same, the rest is markedly different. Take care of yourselves, Yale Class of 2001. In the words of my man, Davenport Master Gerald Thomas, “You’re all good kids.”

Michael Zimmer is a senior in Davenport College.