Well, Senior Me, here we are. The time we couldn’t wait for, but still hoped would never come. Freshmen Me is just a distant memory as we enter my last semester of college. Amazing how those words feel so liberating, yet so heart-wrenching and depressing — like Adele was standing next to us in the basement of our favorite frat house belting them out. Except she’s on fire. And the trash can punch just ran out. So before they refill that sucker and I forget all about how it will only be acceptable to drink this shit for another four months, I want to apologize to you, self, for everything I’ve put us through since this journey began (at least that I can remember).
To my dignity: You were forgotten about. Bruised and left behind. Placed in the lost and found after last call, and honestly could probably be seen on one of those Sarah McLaughlin commercials that hits you right where it hurts. I knew you deserved better than that, but tequila didn’t. I’m not sure where you are now, but I would stay there until after graduation so I don’t lose you forever. It’s for the best. I can’t promise that I can properly care for you until then.
To my liver: Big thanks are in order here. You’re a fucking trooper. Like you are the Chris Kyle American Sniper of livers. You never missed a shot, whether it was Fireball, Jäger, or that weird minty stuff that makes me feel like I’m burping up toothpaste the next day. Keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll be just fine. You is smart, you is kind, you is important. You is appreciated more than my ever-growing collection of shack shirts that I will cherish as long as it’s socially acceptable.
To my body: I know you didn’t need that fourth slice of pizza at 3 a.m. last Friday. I know thirty minutes on the elliptical once a month isn’t enough to keep up with the beating I give you every Thursday through Sunday. I know you’re getting fed up with me because I can barely button up those really cute high waisted denim shorts, but just hold on a little bit longer. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
To my voice: I’m sorry for belting out “Wagon Wheel” sixteen times in a row — getting louder and more confident that I sound like the next Carrie Underwood with each shot that was handed my way. You know I always wanted to be a country singer at heart, and vodka told me that this was my chance! If it makes you feel any better, I actually sounded like Sanjaya. Maybe I should just stick to singing in the shower to make it easier on you. Unless they play “Don’t Stop Believing.” Then you’re shit out of luck.
To my feet: You have been shoved mercilessly into 6-inch heels and tried to keep me balanced as my general motor skills deteriorated throughout the night. You somehow ended up on a bar top while I tried to dance like one of Beyoncé’s single ladies. As much as I would like to apologize, you better get used to that shit. Those sky-high stilettos make my ass look incredible and they are not going anywhere. As for dancing on the bar, I pray that changes for both your sake and mine.
And finally, to my vagina: Do I even need to say it?
Self, I may have put you through hell the past three and a half years. But let me tell you, you ain’t seen nothing yet. That was all just training for what’s to come. We’re going to drink more, sing louder, dance harder, make that late night pizza delivery call, and regret it all in the morning. I actually might even consider taking a fifth year. My man Asher Roth said it best — “Do I really have to graduate, or can I just stay here for the rest of my life?” Because the reality of it is I’m actually not sorry at all..