In 1 hour and 19 minutes I will attend the last class of my inanely long undergraduate career. “Career” is the wrong word. Replace “career” with: “decapitated chicken pursuit expedition.” No wait, I wasn’t the pursuing chicken farmer; I was the headless chicken—and what a headless chicken I was.

A while ago my mom’s friend (Monica) asked if I would give her daughter a tour of the school when she came up on one of those introduce-high-school-students-to-university things. She did not, however, ask me to give her daughter any advice about university. I think this was because “take 6 years, change your major twice, dropout once to flip burgers, and then dropout again and move to a communist country” is bad advice.

Despite the circuitousness and nonsensicality of my trek, here I am at the … line … that … is near the finish. I suppose the important thing is not how long it takes one to learn a lesson, but rather how well that lesson is learnt. Still, 6 years? Mother F!

Oh well, at least it’s finally over—oh wait, it’s not. I still have 12-16 months in a BEd or teacher-certification program. I look forward to that more, though, because it will be more directly related to being a teacher. In English, nothing is directly related to anything. We mostly just sit around trying to think of new words that we could add “meta,” “post,” or “ism” to. To sum up everything I have learned in university: the post-cranial chicken is the meta-fowl of barnyardism. Really, it is.