As you all know by now, I’m laming it up here this summer. That means my graduation party won’t be until August, which suits me just fine. It’s not that I’m too cool to hang out with my family or that I don’t enjoy being handed large sums of money. I’m just sick of people asking me, “So, what are you going to do now?” Next time this happens I’m just going to pretend to think on it for a minute and say, “I think I might get bangs.”

At least no one can say I haven’t done anything to start my writing career. The Daily Illini has finally given me something to put on my resume. I also have a plump portfolio filled with hilarious, yet thought provoking articles, which are bound to keep me warm when I’m living on the streets. The trick is to crumple them up and put them in your shirt for insulation. At least seeing The Day After Tomorrow was good for something.

Not to mention all the press I have received for my column. My articles have been referenced on Matt Singer’s blog, and a Web site called All Hat No Cattle. I haven’t received any money from these appearances, per se, but the word is out. And the word is genius. I wrote an “excellent article” and I’m a “young Maureen Dowd.” Does it really matter that the last quote was from my own mother? It’s clear I am destined for fame, so don’t be blinded by my rising star.

If there is one thing I’m going to miss about writing for the DI, it’s the fan mail. Wanna know how I found out my article appeared on Monday last week? The fans, or fan as the case may be, hit up my inbox with rave reviews. I’ll never forget the time a fan wrote me saying that New York Times featured an article that complimented mine. I clicked on the link and saw that it was New York Times columnist Paul Krugman. I was so excited that I called my dad to tell him before I had actually read the article.

To my dismay the fan meant the article was complementary to mine, i.e. they went along together. I called my dad to tell him that Paul Krugman had not, in fact, paid me a compliment. My dad simply said, “Well, maybe he doesn’t know you.” I had a pretty good laugh at that. Paul Krugman not knowing me. That’s a good one.

Most of all I’m going to miss the many friends I’ve made at the DI, but the memories will last a lifetime. Chris Kozak and I riding on double-seated bikes; Jon Monteith and I taking salsa-dancing lessons. My editor Kali Bhandari and I tie-dying T-shirts and watching Iron Chef America on a Sunday afternoon. Five words: Me, Therese, cannoli-eating contest. Two more words: projectile vomiting.

And Bridget Sharkey. The two of us arriving as freshmen, living in room 3-something in LAR, unable to grasp dining room hours, her unusually tiny head peeping down from the top bunk asking “Will our lives always be like this?” If only our lives could always be like this. Who would have thought that one day we would be writing for this prestigious college publication? Some have accused me of riding on her coattails, but I think we can see who the more talented of the two is (see press above).

About the only good thing coming out of me leaving the DI is that I will no longer have to fight the urge to say, “I can sign that for you,” whenever I see someone reading the paper on a Tuesday morning. Oh and this hellacious picture of me will be out of my life.