I graduated from Columbia University and all I got was this lousy education!

And a pen.

Actually, for the record, I got a diploma, two pins, a pen from the company that supplied my college loan, and an "I survived the swim test" beach towel. I kind of wish I weren't such a downtrodden prick that I could believe I'd also nicked a few friends from these four years, but that sort of optimism just isn't a part of my constitution. I certainly didn't believe Dean Quigley when he said we'd continue to make friendships as part of the Columbia family. Horse-phlooey! It's not like I've been making friends from Spiffy High since they put me in a cap and gown and kicked me out into the real world. The whole Fanwood social scene's been pretty much downhill; I'm thankful for the few plateaus.

As it turned out, class day was the perfect culmination to my four years at Columbia, in the most literary sense possible, an unintentional metaphor. In the real world, the celebration was disappointing, even for someone with my low, low expectations. It was about a million degrees out in the sun and I could feel the skin on my neck and ears burning off. There weren't enough chairs out for all the graduates, although the maintenance crew solved that problem at the last minute. I couldn't find my parents in the crowd because, while everyone else's proud family members congregated right up against the procession, my dad — and remember that he's the guy who used to take us to the Fourth of July "Stars and Stripes Forever" concert at the Summit Park and, even though people around us were picnicking and playing Frisbee and catch, he wouldn't let us make a damn sound during the concert — my dad thought it would be improper if the family moved from their seats in the middle of the crowd. He also had his cell phone off, so I couldn't tell him where to look for me, but he did call me as soon as the emcee told everyone to "please be seated."

And then this totally unfamiliar feeling come over me. I was disappointed that I didn't see my family. That never happened before; usually I'm thrilled when those dull freaks are not around, for the reasons described above. But yesterday... maybe it was cause everyone else was finding their, well, maybe "loved ones" isn't quite the correct term. I caught myself scanning the crowd for them (now I know how a Secret Service agent feels) and even standing on my chair hoping to get a better view. No such luck.

Even after I got my name called and I was recessing off the stage, instead of rushing out of their seats to come see me, what do they do? They sit there, in the heat, listening to some fat woman call the names of eight hundred total strangers. Other kids getting hugs and flowers and stuff....

So there were the customary speeches. Here's a rule for making a speech: put your mouth up to the fucking microphone, or else no one will be able to hear you! Jeez! Apparently our guest speaker, Tony Kushner CC '78, gave an amazing speech, but I couldn't make out one damn word of it. I did, however, get to hear our valedictorian Jacob, the same Jacob who I called an "intellectual masturbator" in one of my e-mails from the first week of school, the same Jacob who suggested a "no put-downs" ground rule at our freshman orientation sexual assault ice-breaker and I wanted to say "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard" in response but didn't, I got to hear every last cliche and platitude out of his mouth. And then this other totally unfamiliar feeling came over me: "Why can't you just enjoy this?"

Maybe because it was just unenjoyable. I mean, no one else I talked to enjoyed class day either. Maybe some things just suck ass.

You know what would've improved class day? If those cicadas all spontaneously flew out of the ground and celebrated our graduation in song, then went off to mate. It would be like fireworks, except with giant horny bugs. It would be even more like fireworks if all the cicadas exploded on cue.