Well, this is it: my last column for Generation. I remember when I first came to the university, and, looking back now, I’ve started to realize how valuable my time here really was—no, wait, fuck this.

Why do UB seniors get this bizarre variant of Stockholm syndrome that causes them to view their time here like Prom was last week and they’re just pausing to reflect before the big Graduation Day kegger up at Jordan’s lake house where maybe, just maybe, they’ll fumble around in the back seat of a Ford Focus with that cute field hockey player?

There is no joygasm of possibility when you leave the university. And your degree won’t turn you into the weather-beaten robots your parents became, either—at least, it doesn’t have to. Outside the depressing slaughterhouse mindfuck of North Campus is nothing more or less amazing than real life, and you’ve been living it for quite some time—poorly, most likely, if you ended up here.

The real culprit here is the college myth, the mass psychosis we’re all a part of that tells us that college is an “experience,” not an education, that college—not anywhere else—is the time and place for principled political stances and social experimentation, and that you’re broke shit worthless if you don’t get your bachelors…and then your Master’s…and then your PhD. or teaching certificate, and on and on.

So many of us bought in to the Van Wilder fantasy advanced by pop culture vehicles like collegehumor.com. Sites like this don’t succeed because there’s anything intrisically brilliant about snow penises or pictures of passed-out kids getting teabagged; they succeed because advertisers know that every time you visit the site, you’ll take away a little voice in the back of your head that explains why Vonage really is better than the leading wireless providers. Shitty plastic merchandise makers know you’ll come away with a better understanding of how much you need a big foam Shocker hand.

This is our reality. We all grew up wanting to be the kids from PCU, those loveable eccentric fuck-ups that unite their campus and rise to unexpected glory in a righteous cause against the forces of patrician Nazis—all while getting boldly trashed and wildly out of control. But now we’re here, and it turns out college is just another product, another industry, another advertising campaign directed at the generation with the steady allowances and laid-back parents.

So, where do we get our school spirit? Our proud traditions? This is the UB that talks about academic excellence while cutting faculty and funding from its liberal arts programs because they don’t bring in the big federal grant checks. This is the university that spawned student leaders who treated the Student Association budget like it was a Visa Buxx card. This is the university that should have been built downtown, but instead—to the vast financial benefit of well-connected local developers—it is currently sinking into the dark, swampy shithole of suburban Amherst, NY.

Are we proud of our campus events? Ahem, Hoobastank/Live/Our Lady Peace, ahem. I mean the ‘90s were sweet and all, but let it go, guys, really. If you keep going down that road, in 20 years, you’ll be the ones trying to sell me the Giants of Grunge box set on the WB at 4 a.m. (“Although Better Than Ezra may have left the stage, they never left out hearts.”)

It could be the weather. I mean, those two and a half weeks at the beginning and end of the year are enjoyable as compared to the Dantean hell-frost of the intervening five months. But it’s really just like that taste of honey before God takes it away and punches you in the mouth for asking for more.

I know this place, this UB, and this place is fucked. But we’re all in this together, right? And what are we going to do, transfer to the University of Phoenix, spend the rest of our academic careers in our parents’ basements getting top-notch degrees in VCR maintenance or blender repair? No; I think we’ll stay and stick it out and confine the rest of our grumblings to the bar, the therapist’s office, and transparently autobiographical, gritty, awful novels about how the 9/11 generation came to grips with its lack of role models and rose above its own inner demons and addictions to pursue a successful career in interior design. Mine’s going to be called A Million Little Throw Pillows, to be followed by Argument Club and Passive Aggression.

Look for my name in lights, baby, I’m ridin’ this train to the top.