Whether you're graduating, headed home to a suburb basement, enrolled in summer classes, or selling your flesh to pay Colorado rent, let's take this time to reminisce on college highlights.
Like your outfit, I'm a '90s kid. As Emily Sanderson of "A Night at the Roxbury" told us: "I'm in college. Translation: drunken orgies with occasional Cliffs Notes."
Archaic study guides aside, here are some takeaways from those solid years of an education that'll (maybe) be paid off when we hit menopause.
We've spent durable hunk of time rubbing, basting and brining our livers.
From bar olympics to happy hour with The Boss, this solid investment of time will prove as no waste.
The progression will escalate, though, so be sure to know the signs. Now, your pristine young vessel is housing a healthy pink organ — but at least you've begun to salt 'n' pepper it. When quarter-life panic attacks move in, you can start blackening it. By 30, you'll be full-on rolling that liver in habanero oil while collecting your paycheck from Chili's.
We can all thank college for a lesson in tolerance.
College has taught us that all colors and flavors of all rainbows are our pals. We've broadened our beliefs, enlarged our hearts and have learned that we're all on the same team in life.
So let's all take our pants off in a field of prairie dogs, hold hands and wave prayer flags around.
FORGET ABOUT IT
Word on the street is, you're likely to forget most of what you learned at college. "Word" = my mouth; "the street" = your mom.
But that's OK. The brain is a complicated fella that needs to purge insignificant information like, "that one guy who did something neat that one time in history." Your brain needs to barf out that nonsense to make room for, "what's the ABV of every craft beer in the world?"
So unless "Jeopardy," is on your slate, purge useless drivel and pave space for Joe Jonas lyrics and images of Nicki Minaj's ass.
DON'T LOSE THAT BUFFIN' FEELIN
Keep clutching soft to those words we've been ramming into you for (10?) years now: Poor Buffs. There's always next year.
Love your alma-mater forever. Caress its thigh. Feed it baby carrots and fan it with a palm leaf. After all, its worth is hovering over you like Mel Gibson's undercarriage. It was a ridiculous amount of cash, so embrace it. (Be sure to have a safety word if things get too aggressive.)
Neat! You're the first bloke(ttes) in history to have recreational marijuana at the tips of your lips. That's pretty cool. You can tell your grandkids: "The tide turned when I could finally buy an eighth of grass and not have to pick brickweed out of my teeth."
"But grandpa, you don't have any teeth," they'll say.
"Shut the fuck up and go fetch me my pocket pussy."
Look how pretty we are.