As I write my final words ever to be printed in the Daily Collegian, things seem to have come full circle. Southwest is again aflame, with drunken crowds still looking for any decent reason to scream at the top of their lungs, and the police are still perched on their (high) horses. Ding dong, bin Laden is dead. As all the hootin’ and hollerin’ echoes off of the ugly exterior of JQA, I can’t help but wonder if my grandchildren will be taking part in their first UMass riot in this same spot 50 years from now. It would make me damn proud. By then global warming will have turned the Southwest beach into actual beachfront property. The fact that Boston is submerged under the Atlantic should be a boon to the University’s recruiting efforts.

Back in 2007, at the beginning of my great college endeavor, four years seemed like forever. After graduating from high school, The College Experience appeared an epic adventure in the making. Much fun was to be had, and work to be done. In the process, I was to be made into Minuteman material. A lot was supposed to change in this time-span, but essentially I still feel like the same person.

I still hate long walks on the beach. I still procrastinate too much, and also still don’t eat enough vitamins or vegetables. I’m still going to be late for my own funeral. I’m still pathetically cynical, although it seems increasingly justified in an era that canonizes Justin Bieber and dubstep. Whatever happened to authenticity? Did TV kill the radio star? Is the Internet strangling what little is left of our culture?

In the meantime, I’ve gorged myself on the fruits of The College Experience. I’ve made some incredible friends. I’ve lived in the dorms, and then somehow managed to get the hell out of there before getting arrested or contracting a disease from the showers. Ken Toong has filled me to the brim with Franklin chicken wings, time and time again, without fail.

My professors attempted to fill the empty vessel of my brain with their immense knowledge, sometimes against my will. I’ve slowly come to appreciate their hard-fought efforts, even if they were in vain. I have to blame my Norse hardheadedness, which comes along with translucent skin only capable of achieving shades of red, freckled or white.

Working at the Collegian has taught me things no class could, including how to properly catch and dispose of a cockroach, and how to overcome the initial stages of Fatal Sleep Deprivation Syndrome. It also taught me quite a bit about human beings, and showed me them at their best and worst, and all the shades in between.

I’ve learned about the Pioneer Valley. There are the Birkenstockian, organic granola revolutionaries. There are the pickup truck driving, chain-smoking blue collar types. There are the polo-wearing, collar-popping, I’m-related-to-Jeffrey-Amherst variety of old-money folks, riding their family’s reputation to the top. And there are the students, dedicated to keeping things interesting one body-shot of tequila at a time.

Thank god I’m leaving before this goddamn smoking ban takes effect. It has taken me three Marlboros just to finish this paragraph, and I’d rather poke a pair of hot irons into my eyes than deal with University taking away the one legal chemical that got me through the long, sub-zero January walks across campus the past four years.

Surprisingly, it turns out that hazy memories can sometimes be the most rewarding and pleasant. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes while you still can.

This fall shall bring the annual hordes of new freshmen, completely unaware of the rebirth that awaits them. They will arrive on campus by the flock, stupid and naked like newborn babies.

Soon enough they will see what it’s like to be in the college rat maze, led down pre-constructed paths from the food trough to the mouse wheel. It can be hard to resist the urge to chew your way out of the maze prematurely, but I recommend following the cheese.

Nick Bush was the Collegian’s Editor-in-chief.