Oh my god do I hate being a senior. The past four months have been hell. Pure, unadulterated hell. If you're not a senior, you might be
thinking, “God, this kid bitches every week about something. What's he going to whine about next? Disneyland? Pornography? The smell of springtime?" Listen, shut
your face. If you're not a senior, you don't know. You know how black people claim everything is racist, and as a white person, you say, “Surely this bastard is full
of shit”? Well, turns out black people were right all along. Okay, that's not true, but please keep an open mind.

Being a senior sucks donkey dick. I would be better off having Bush as my president for twelve more years than being a senior. I'd be better
off being a Cubs fan than being a senior. I'd be better off plagiarizing Nick Gaudio than being a senior.

"I used to talk about the Red Sox and boobs and my 96-second piss that I took last week in the shower. Now I talk about health
insurance."

How do I hate being a senior? Let me count the ways:

The Job Market

Oh Lord have mercy. My school paper, the Northeastern News, recently published an article claiming the job market for graduating seniors is
improving dramatically. When I saw that, I was literally so angry my asshole climbed up to my collarbone. Are you fucking kidding me? The job market sucks. The job market is so bad, I
actually applied for a data entry position—and was denied! That's not a joke. Here's the letter (carefully edited) so you don't think I'm just making shit up to be
funny.

Dear Justin -

Thank you for your interest in the Data Entry position for our [workplace that I'm not printing so my poor broke white ass doesn't get
sued.]

After careful consideration, we have unfortunately decided that your qualifications do not suit our needs at this time.

Thank you again for your inquiry.

A five-year journalism student who has interned at a major newspaper is not qualified to sit at a computer and stare. Isn't that sad? What's
going on here? For five fucking years, I've sat at a computer and stared. There's nobody more qualified.

And yet, here we are. Growing up, I dreamed of covering the Bruins. That dream is dead. I'm 22. I've got no job. No woman. My pets' heads are
falling off! Okay, that's Lloyd Christmas, but you get the point. And you know why I'm so upset. I'll tell you why. Because I'm a white male.

Okay, I'm about to go on a really angry tangent here, so if you're not interested, feel free to skip ahead...

[Nobody wants to hire a white male. We live in a society that has become so politically correct and determined to do the right thing and
involve everyone, we've created a new group to oppress: poor white bastards like myself. Now, I don't hold this against women or minorities. Just about every woman I know
is smarter than me. Same for minorities. But I don't like the idea of businesses essentially telling me, " Yeah, the next person we hire has to be a black Asian female with a club foot. So see you later." And I've
heard something to that effect from two companies so far. That's horseshit. Not only that, it's racist. And sexist. It's open exclusion. I might be more than qualified to
cover a little league lacrosse tournament, but as a white male, I'll never get the chance. And that's not right. All that's doing is creating more prejudice. Giant
companies are practicing this exclusion every day, and yet I'm the asshole for writing jokes about it. That's not fair. I blame liberals.

We'll be back with the O'Reilly Factor after this word from Tampax....]

And we're back...

Health Insurance

Over the past month, I've had about 2,019 conversations with fellow seniors about health insurance. Last week, I was at a bar during a Red
Sox game (which Boston fans will soon refer to as “the Papelbon game”)… It’s 2-1 late. I'm not watching. Instead, I'm talking to my friend Jenny
about health insurance. And I'm interested! She tells me her work gives her an optical plan. And I'm fascinated! How big of a loser am I? If you ever find yourself at a
bar during an exciting baseball game, and your attention is diverted by 401Ks and dental plans, do yourself a favor and drink like Nicholas Cage in Leaving Las
Vegas. You're better off.

I wasn't always like this. I used to talk about the Red Sox and boobs and my 96-second piss that I took last week in the shower. Now I talk
about health insurance. When I turn 23, I'm off my parent's plan. This makes my palms sweat. I can't eat. I can't sleep. August 16, 2006 (send gifts!) is a guillotine
hanging over my head. Because you know what's going to happen? On August 17, I'm going to get hit by a fucking bus, then stampeded by a charity walk for 300-pound breast
cancer survivors, then struck down by the Lord for the joke I make two paragraphs from now.

Classes

NU, like a lot of overpriced, overrated institutions is on a five-year program. Which is great, I definitely needed five years to learn how
to be a journalist. Northeastern could make you think you need six months and $20,000 to learn how to wipe your ass. But I'm not bitter! Anyway, as a senior, classes suck.
Oh my Christ. Enough is enough. It's not so much the classes in particular (I'm actually taking a magazine writing class right now that's probably taught me more about
journalism than the past five years combined, and I'm writing this for two reasons: 1. It's true, and 2. There's a chance my prof is reading this, and I'll take any edge I
can get).

It's more the little things that annoy me about my classes: The participation grade. Getting a paper back without a grade but the words: "
See me." The fat guy who brings his laptop and gets an “A” because the prof thinks he's so studious but you know he was just playing Snood the whole time. The
glaring jackoff who involves himself in every conversation, even though every time he talks you he secretly hopes he gets invited to strip at a Duke lacrosse party. (Too
soon? Sorry.)

The Pressure

That's the big thing. I'm doing about as well in my classes as I've ever done, and yet I'm a nervous wreck. I look like Peyton Manning in a
football game that actually has meaning. I got a lousy grade on one of my midterms and I haven't slept since. And come on, you know me, I couldn't give a rat's dick about
my grades. I've got a 2.76 GPA...in journalism. If you can't get at least a 3.5 in journalism, you shouldn't be allowed to drive a car. But I study now. And attend
classes. And care. I actually care. JD Rebello
cares. This is awful. This is deranged. This, my poor, unsuspecting underclassmen readers, is life as a senior.

Enjoy.

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