Ev'ry dog has its day, ev'ry book has an end, ev'ry death row inmate gets a meal,But to sign off this semester "retrospectively," all you get is a poem, so deal.
I dedicate this to the class of two thousand and six, who will soon disappear.I've omitted a lot, but I'm writing this down, at least while the mem'ries are clear.
So Maestro, cue the strings if you please, good sir; let this bittersweet symphony start.As always, dear Jumbos, underneath all the sarcasm, this article comes from the heart.
Remember that time when you were a senior, in high school, back at your home?When you made the decision to pack up your bags, and go live in Boston, alone?
The city itself is an unmarked-street maze; the weather caught you unprepared.And without any parents to run home and cry to, occasionally you would get scared.
Although Tufts was your base, your anchor at sea, you still had to go and make friends.Had to constantly ask, "What's your name, where you from?" even if it just led to dead ends.
Remember the time you knew that your roommate and you would always get along?Then seven months later you had to admit, at times, even you could be wrong?
Or the time you arrived in the first of your classes, like a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fawn? To discover that seniors would make you do grunt work, like a chump or proverbial pawn?
Remember the time you first saw a cappella and it totally blew your mind?Then you later found out a cappella and cults were ideas that were quite intertwined?
Remember that time when you had never tasted the sweet liquid we know as beer?You were totally straight-edged and uncompromising - the choice about liquor was clear.
Then remember the first time you actually drank, had a good time, and stumbled around?And then realized in hindsight you really enjoyed that on which you had recently frowned?
You were handed a beer and you thought to yourself, you just wanted to "know how it tasted." Then seven rounds later, you were certifiably, no-room-for-doubt-straight up wasted.
Or how 'bout the time that you went to a friend's house, and took lots of shots and got sauced? Then drunkenly stumbled to Houston Hall, slipped on ice, fought the pavement, and lost?
Remember the time you went home during break and nothing really had changed? It was normal and not at the very same time, and you woke feeling slightly deranged?
And then there's the time you referred to your home and you actually meant your dorm.And you stopped for a second and dwelled on the fact that life here had become the new norm.
Remember when you ran the Naked Quad Run as a freshman back in 2002?The same year that Bacow had a fundraisers' dinner and it caused a big hullabaloo?
Or how 'bout the time you were drinking Busch Light on the street and were stopped by the fuzz? They didn't arrest you for shame that you drink cheap piss-water like that for a buzz.
Remember that time when you were a senior, in college, the place you call home?When you made the decision to pack up your bags, and go start work elsewhere, alone?
Remember that time there was only one week until school was finished forever?And you look back and survey with a critical eye, this luxurious four-year endeavor?
Or how 'bout that time we applied for a job that didn't just wrap up in August?When we all joined the rat-race, our care-free days over, and wandered the real world nonplussed?
In 25 years, when we're rich CEOs, or begging for change on the corner,We'll be missing this place, and the good times we had; we'll compete to see who is forlorn-er.
So make these weeks count; don't be muted or mired by anxiety or pessimismRemember, (at least) that college is the one honest way to justify alcoholism.
That said, I bid thee a grand adios. Sayonara, friends, ciao and adieu.This has been Alex Sherman with Retrospective, signing off - Jim, back to you.
