From: Senior Class <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Rudy’s, Olde Blue, End of the World Party
This is your last reminder. Head out to Rudy’s tonight for a free beer with your senior essay cover page! Get lots of cheap booze at Olde Blue! Go men’s hockey! Congrats Serge Grossman on McKinsey!
Also, don’t forget the End of the World Party! Open Bar all night! Celebrate the End of the World as we know it!
And last, make sure you post where you will be next year on the “Post-Yale” Web site so everyone can see! Tell us all about how you are having a great job and a great life! We really want to know! Really!
I’ve been on that Web site a few times and let me tell you, people are doing some great things. Your job at UBS Warburg sounds great, Missy! Katzenbach, Micah? Sounds thrilling. And Erica, Costa Rica? Who knew?
See, on this Web site there is a great big map of the United States. And everywhere that there is a Yalie living and working, there is a cute little “Y.” And what do you know? The whole country is full of Ys, spreading from coast to coast. The map is brimming with them. Hundreds and hundreds of jobs and apartments THAT I DON’T HAVE.
It’s enough to make me shove a big blue Y up my own ass.
But you know what? I have a little secret. I got a second-round interview. I haven’t told anybody because I don’t want to blow it, but an associate there called me last night and told me it was in the bag. And as soon as I send this e-mail, I’m going to go update the Web site, so it doesn’t just have a blank space under my name. And then your i-banking jobs won’t seem so posh, my friends.
Because I’m going to be a floor manager at Wendy’s.
Take that, Lehman.
Oh, you say your job has a five-figure salary? I bet you’d trade that salary for my upward mobility. With my credentials I’m likely to be promoted every six months. Talk to you in three years, my analyst friend. Ooh, you get a Christmas bonus? I have three words for you: Spicy Chicken Combo.
My bonus? It comes every day of the year. And I won’t have to fellate Solomon to get it.
But seriously, seniors. It’s the end of the year. It’s the end of Yale. We might not see one another again. Sure, it’s been a long year. Some of you, after four years of college, managed to prove yourself still illiterate by not knowing who Thomas Friedman is. Still others have spent the year sending us hate mail because the pizza at BAR didn’t show up on time, or there weren’t enough nachos. I completely understand. The likelihood that your officers willingly deceived you is obviously much higher than the likelihood that the grumpy waiter at Viva’s didn’t have his act together. You know that guy.
I know we didn’t plan enough events for everyone. We completely forgot the people who hate drinking, and who hate not drinking, and who hate art, and who hate food, and who hate dancing, and who hate charity, and who hate study breaks, and who hate other people. Sorry Frank Chen! All of our hard work was for naught. We forgot you can’t read!
How inconsiderate of us.
And while I’m at it, can we talk for a minute about the people who check IDs at the gym? Why are they so mean? And don’t even get me started about the men who work at York Copy. They’re like the Soup Nazis of photocopying. Except gay. How are these individuals gainfully employed, while I am not?
I mean, I’ve had my jacket stolen at Toad’s twice since I came here. I’ve been splashed by that rain puddle on York and Elm more times than I can count. The motion sensor lights always go out on me in WLH, and on Lynwood Avenue. My American studies TA moved my section to Cosi during the strike, and I had to walk through the snow to get there. The construction by Silliman smells really bad. I’ve had classes in SSS 114. I’m in Stiles, for the love of God.
Annette keeps asking me about my girlfriend. What a dirty ho. She knows very well I’m gay! Maybe if things don’t work out with Wendy’s, I can become a songwriter and try to undersell her. I’ll call myself 90 Cent.
I can’t type fast enough to keep up with the complaints I’m thinking up. These four years have been full of angst and irritation. Why can’t that girl shut up in section? Rolling your eyes at me and raising your hand smugly does not make you smart. It makes me hate you.
Why am I not a theater studies major? Why do the tour guides always tell the same stupid jokes and lies? Do they want visitors to think we are all semi-retarded? What the hell is Ethnicity, Race and Migration? Why are people protesting the war at Yale? You think I can get on my Batphone and call the thing off?
I’m sorry, OK, I don’t like screwdrivers. NOBODY LIKES SCREWDRIVERS.
OK. Let me catch my breath. My fingers are tired.
Complaining is exhausting. It really is. There’s always more to complain about. It never ends. I knew you seniors were going to complain when I ran to be treasurer. Because if I didn’t, I would complain too. You can see that I’m very good at it. And I am also good at sending hotheaded e-mails.
We will always complain. No matter what we are doing. I can’t even listen to my parents for more than 30 seconds without whining.
“DO YOU HAVE A JOB YET CHRIS? AUNT SALLY KNOWS SOMEONE AT BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS!”
So I’ve had four years worth of complaints. Frankly, I have more reasons to hate it here than I do to like it. Don’t you?
I don’t have a job, or an apartment, or even any money for next year. Was college even worth it? I don’t have any job skills, my resume means nothing in the real world, and I don’t have any connections.
But I’m ready to go. I’m ready to finish with Yale and get on with my life. And not because I hate it here. Sure I have a million little complaints. But we only have to concern ourselves with weird organic food at Gourmet Heaven and typos in the Yale Daily News because our lives are nearly perfect. Believe it or not, someday there will be no one to clean up the puke in your bathroom for you, and items at bookstores will cost real money.
I’m ready to leave Yale because these have been the best four years of my life, and no amount of whining could even put a dent in that. We took from Yale everything that it could give, and now it’s time to move on. I may not know how to do anything in an office, but I know how to have a good time. If that’s the only thing I learned here, then it’s been worth it. Yes, it’s the end of the world as we know it.
And I feel fine.