In six months this will all be like a bad, bad dream. As I sit at my shiny desk in my padded, high-backed, ergonomically refined chair and prepare to enjoy a tasty, hot beverage a shiver will crawl down my spine as my mind flits over the torment of my four years of higher learning. But I will be able to shake my head to clear it and smile as I realize that it's all behind me now.

Maybe in those happy times to come, the skills that have been branded into me will come in handy. That do-it-yourself attitude that comes from years of being ignored by the administration. That ruggedness that comes from living in crappy dorms. That sly sense of irony that comes from knowing that everyone who says they're trying to help me is trying to fuck me and all my friends. That sardonic wit that comes from hearing over and over about how today's sacrifice is tomorrow's benefit. Perhaps these life-skills will serve me well in my new career, but I have payed dearly to get them.

I once was a really deep-down sweet guy. Compared to that person, I am Darth Vader, I'm Darth Maul, I'm the Emperor for god's sake. Columbia scooped out my chocolate and caramel center and replaced it with a crunchy granola. Still, maybe, just like Darth Vader, there is still good in me. When I leave these hallowed halls behind, I can focus on rebuilding that kind-hearted and open person that was Tom Bellin, freshman.

One thing that has always amazed me about Columbia is that for all the assholes that go here, there's a lot of really amazing people mixed in. Certainly, Columbia's admissions process is a hit-or-miss operation, otherwise me and all the other non-super-huge-pricks who go to this school would have been going to our safety. And man, we would have been happy motherfuckers.

The one sad thing about leaving behind this castle in Harlem is that I'm going to be parting ways with a lot of people whom I respect and admire. Hopefully I wont lose touch with them all and the friendships that I've fostered will remain. Because, man, if I can't keep my friends, then this whole Columbia thing was a big piece of human excrement.

I have this dream... It's Class Day and my name is called. I walk up to Dean Yatrakis (who's handing out diplomas) and she's hands me a box with a nice, hot, steaming turd in it. She smiles like the Cheshire cat. And I smile back and thank her.

After four strenuous years here, I can say with authority that the Fed is my proudest achievement. I can't decide if that's impressive or sad. Each issue of the Fed gets better and better. People read it. People like it. People still call us the Federalist, but they enjoy it. The new staff of the Fed (who's responsible for this atrocious layout and all these typos) are great people. And my baby is in their hands now.

In forty years, maybe I'll look back on this all with a smile and a laugh. Maybe I'll chuckle at my complaining ways and long for those carefree days of college life. Maybe I'll wish I'd smoked more pot or had more sex or eaten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I hope that the Fed will still be here. Cause man, that would be so cool.