It is strange to consider that Whitman will be leaving me behind in a mere two weeks, but alas, the world continues to turn and I continue to spill the filth that I consider comedy from deep within my subconscious.  Before Whitman regurgitates me with unceremonious force into what is known as the Adult World, I have a vague bucket list of things to accomplish, but as it goes with bucket lists, love and Whitties showering, some things won’t happen in two weeks.

I said that I was excited to be back in the place so nice they named it twice back in a column I wrote in September, but I am now excited to hand the reins of this strange commune we call Whitman over to the young people who are rising seniors.  They, after all, are the next people who will suffer over oral and written examinations, existential crises of massive proportions, and the strange tango that is eating a meal in Cleveland without being looked at by underclass students.  I would like to remind them that leftovers have only such a long shelf life.  Like the proverbial winter, mold is coming.  Throw it out if you’re not going to eat it.

I do worry about this place, as it seems to be slowly hosting more juuls than students, but I have confidence that the granola-prone Whittie shall prevail over this strange hybrid Whittie who lives online and only visits campus to critique someone’s slackline technique.  I don’t watch “Game of Thrones,” but I like to think of the granola Whittie as Arya Stark.  You don’t love her (usually because you’re a sexist) but her contributions to the world will matter more than anyone else’s.  Oh, did I spoil something?  Too bad, I feel that you spoiled yourself when you placed your dignity in a position subservient to your commitment to a world that doesn’t exist.  Reevaluating priorities might be a dignified New Year’s Resolution.

Regardless of my poisonous tone, I will miss Whitman and Whitties greatly.  The Adult World is a mess, so heading into it doesn’t exactly make me jump up and down with sheer delight.  Despite this, I think that Whitman did prepare me for what I’ll face.  Even with the just horrendous tendencies I now have (i.e. drinking out of mason jars in public) I am confident that the world is a touch more understandable than when I arrived at Whitman.

Good luck, Whitman.  Don’t be afraid to laugh at yourselves every once in a while.