Two years ago, I snuck myself in as a columnist for the News. Despite my lack of experience, the editors decided to let me have a biweekly soapbox — and have probably regretted it ever since. For the next two years, I basically made fun of everything I could think of. (Except for gays, Muslims, and Hillary Clinton. Hey, they may have let me in, but this newspaper still has some standards.)

And now I’ve reached the end. Hard to believe. I have to admit, I’m getting a little teary-eyed, which hasn’t happened since I watched ESPN’s 25th Anniversary Special.

Now, I know it’s supposed to be “SECOND SEMESTER SENIOR YEAR!!!!” But for some reason it just feels more like “second … semester … senior … year.”

Whenever I watch a Wes Anderson movie I laugh a few times, but I always come away feeling like I’m missing something, like there’s some big joke that everyone else understands but that I don’t get. That’s how I feel this semester — I’m having fun, it’s great to be a senior, but I’m not a walking booze sponge or anything.

Maybe it means I’m growing up. But that can’t be right, because I still laugh at fart jokes and play Mario Kart.

So I guess it just means I’m ready to get out of here, which makes sense. I really don’t know how much longer I can live in a city where the daily blaring siren count is in the teens. What is this, the arson capital of the world? Seriously, I heard so many fire trucks in my four years here that I can’t believe there are any buildings left standing. Judging by the sirens, New Haven should look like Dresden in 1945.

Speaking of shitholes, how could I leave without bidding farewell to Toad’s? Sure, I love the emotional outlet of dancing to their “phat” beats every week, but there’s so much more. I just love that there is a cover charge at the small door closest to Yorkside but not the front door. I love how their Dixie cups of Natty Light cost the same as the big cups. I love that they play the same crappy music every Saturday night. I love that it provides a haven for date-raping, striped-shirt-wearing greasers from Q-pac. I love that they allow people to piss on the bar. The Toad’s people really run a classy establishment. Yeah, them and the guys from York Copy. Though my four-year campaign to find evidence that York Copy was a drug front failed, I have faith in the YDN’s up-and-coming investigative journalists.

I have written at length about how much I won’t miss section, but it warrants mentioning again. I hate section more than bin Laden hates infidels … and if you like section, I hate you even more than that.

Whether or not you like section, if you go to Yale, you probably don’t know how to have normal interactions with humans. This caused me to have numerous teeth-pulling conversations in the last four years. It’s feast or famine with Yale students — you’re either one of those super-booksmart people who don’t know how to make small talk, walk in crowds and watch sports, or you’re one of the rich, arrogant ones who can’t have a conversation without talking about yourself and correcting everyone else. They really should teach Social Skills 101 here.

With all the talk about minorities at Yale, why don’t you ever hear about socially skilled people? To all those people who tell me I don’t know what it’s like to be in the minority, I do. And you’re right, it sucks ass.

Though I’m in a minority, I definitely will not miss seeing flyers about queer sex every time I leave my room.

And I won’t miss being trapped at the dining hall entrances by people waving petitions and surveys and jars of money in my face.

Speaking of money, I definitely won’t miss the “got any change?” guy outside of Mory’s, or the Flower Lady screaming into my ear about my “honey” while I’m on the phone. But I will miss the guy who curses like, well, a drunk homeless guy when you don’t give him change.

Ya know what I will miss? Free antivirus software. And Law School sugar cookies.

I’ll miss everything about the SOM dining hall — their giant Oreo brownies, their gourmet specialty sandwiches, and the cheery staff that has a higher morale than the Swiss Army.

I’ll miss the lacrosse team and their infirmness.

I’ll miss waking up at noon everyday, going to class, then coming back to take a nap.

I’ll miss Bar, beer pong and Broadway Liquor’s ghetto fabulousness.

I’ll definitely miss college. Will I miss Yale? The jury’s still out on that. I mean, if a fourth-grade education and a stint in a murderous regime will get you here, I think Yale’s luster may be wearing off …

Ah, but wait. Yale has revolutionarily decided to put soap dispensers in the bathrooms. (Still waiting on those paper towels, though.) Say goodbye to E. coli and hello to luster!

Luster or not, I guess I can save a little place in my heart for Yale. Without Yale, I wouldn’t have a shot at someday being rich. And I wouldn’t have been able to write this column, and that is what I’ll miss the most.

Well, thanks for reading, and sleep tight, ya morons!

Carl Williott will miss most the bi-weekly opportunity to opine and make obscure references to Holden Caulfied.