This May, I’m on my way out. No more studying. No more computerized tests about jazz artists, da Vinci paintings and snails’ sperm counts.While I’m still here for these last months, it’s easy to notice those who have just arrived. I’m cynical, sure. Geriatric, maybe.  But these kids — they don’t stand a chance.Take the newly-inducted sorority queen with the North Face jacket and orange-peel tan. She smells like powder, perfume and whatever drink was 2-for-1 at Fred’s the night before.She most likely enjoys “The Blind Side” and the latest single from Lady Gaga or whatever song has enough keyboards and synths and bass drums to make her bottom move like an oversized snake.In reality, since she’s white, she moves like a hungry zombie. On the other side of the coin, there’s the one guy who blares indie music from Canada from his i-Pod earbuds so everyone in the classroom can hear it five seconds before class starts.Honestly, I used to be this kid. But I stopped listening to what Pitchfork has to say about music because I don’t want to end up like John Cusack in “High Fidelity.” Did these indie kids not realize that Cusack was a major dick in that movie? He made his beautiful girlfriend pay for everything and get an abortion.But hey, he sure knew how to make a witty comment about everyone else’s taste in music, so that’s all that matters.I don’t mind the Cusack-wannabes as much as I mind the former high-school prom kings. The guys who take 20 minutes to back up those Tonka Toy-like monster trucks into parking spaces. The guys who still wear Letterman jackets. The guys who like Jeff Dunham with their 12-packs of Natural Light and will probably get a job in politics, in high school physical education or in accounting with their fathers.In the future, their fathers will inevitably die, leaving them a collection of terrible action movies featuring The Rock, an unpaid house and all of ZZ Top’s albums.Such is the life of obnoxious mediocrity.At this point, you’ve probably stopped reading because this is so offensive (i.e. true), or you’re wondering who the hell gave me the baton on judging all these people. This is what you do when you’re a senior. You’re 22 years old, sort of have a clue as to what you want to do, but you’re still teetering on the edge of insanity because the economy is an apparent black hole, and the only thing that seems to grant you a job is nepotism or charm.You would rather raise your blood pressure (yes, it does exist) with caffeine and rants to your mother than go to another hour of electives to hear some guy who knows nothing argue with a tenured professor about how global warming doesn’t exist.This is what you do in-between real life and the final drag of a cigarette before that last computerized test in May. You don’t remember that one night when you danced on top of a bar, that one evening when you made all your friends realize this band or that movie was the second coming of Christ.You either think, “I’m screwed” or, “I’m ready for something else.” On my way out, I’m not going to give these kids advice. I’m not going to publish a will to younger people I love and will miss.I’m not going to give my dean a handshake. I’m going to ask him where the hell all the job applications are. Because I’m ready, and it’s the least he can do after four years of some good memories and pointless conversations with Facebook friends. Mathew Sigurmass communication senior
 
 
 
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