For once in my life, a family member gave me decent advice. Instead of telling me to “never go to class in sweats” or “just major in business,” my cousin told me, “Don’t graduate early.” I tossed his words around like Nicki Minaj tosses salad, then quickly concurred. I don’t want to graduate early. Heck, I don’t want to graduate at all. I am now, officially, the first member of the class of 2067.
My journey to not graduate began when I, like most U.Va. students, was peer pressured into securing a summer internship. Unlike my computer science major friends, who are making thousands of dollars in their time away from C’ville, I’m working for free at a local news station in the glamorous Portsmouth, Virginia. Don’t get me wrong, my internship has been a blast, and I’ve learned a lot. I just really, really don’t want to work. Ever. I shared this with my mom, and she confessed that she only sent me to the University to find a rich husband. This took some of the pressure off, but honestly with the way my love life has been going thus far, I highly doubt that’s going to happen. At this point, my standards are lower than a girl on Trin 3 when “No Hands” comes on. I don’t care if he’s ugly, poor or even holding a fish in his profile picture. I’m desperate.
Having an internship is super freaky. The other morning, I caught myself yelling, “Watch it bucko!” at a subaru that cut me off in rush hour, causing me to spill my mug of coffee over my black ~business pants~ and I realized that I was, certifiably, an adult. Where were my jean shorts? My tank tops? I thought that NOVA kids dressed preppy, but here I was being a sell out at 20 years old. I briefly considered a spontaneous road trip to California to work on a marijuana farm —- after all, I already had the EZ Pass — but then I remembered that I don’t have enough gas money for that. If I was at the University, I wouldn’t need gas money. I would just need enough bread to fire up my trusty Lime scooter. For just $2.10 I can make it from my psych class in Gilmer to a fat slice of pizza at Benny Deluca’s. Beat that, real world.
When I’m not chilling behind the news desk, I’m shilling sandwiches at Virginia Beach’s version of Take it Away. Between customers complaining about their food costing too much, or the restaurant being too cold or something else that’s completely out of my control, I ponder how I let my life get to this point. With the current job market, I know that there’s a good possibility that I’ll have to move home after graduation and work a job just like this. A life of menial labor sounds like the devil himself concocted my own personal hell. I would take every math class at the University if it meant I wouldn’t be told to “get my act together” because we ran out of avocados. Seriously Sharon? Kroger is right down the street. You can buy 2 avocados for the price of the three slices we put on your BLT.
The thought of finding a job, becoming business casual and venturing into the “real world” is totally terrifying. I’d much rather just hang out on the lawn and call myself a 5th year until kids start asking why their professor is shotgunning White Claws at Fiji Islander. The Class of 2067 Facebook page might be pretty lonely right now, but I’m sure some fetuses will start applying early decision in no time. Wahoowa b*tches!
Katie McCracken is a Humor Columnist at The Cavalier Daily. She can be reached at email@example.com.