Column: Our hero upon signing an early graduation form

â??So it will read December 2002 on my diploma?

â??Yes it will, but you'll technically remain in the Class of '03. Congratulations.

Smile. Congraduations. Yes that was easy enough. Too easy. Probably they don't want to make a ritual, draw attention. Students might start cutting out early left and right, why wouldn't they? No, remember uncle's advice. The most important thing in your youth is to stay in school. As long. As you possibly. Can. Thanks, unc. Thought so too, till now. What changed? Save tuition, pay off loans, free to do. What. School's over just when you start to know something and then. What. 50 years of anticlimax. jobmarriagekidsnewjobsameastheoldmarriagedeath. Suck it up and buckle down, son, this ain't homework. Ain't no cure for the summertime blues. Now these are some malignant incurable terminal goddamn blues. Graduation = Job, (Job)2= death. Bring on the void. Would still choose death over grad school. Can spot the grads a mile away. Undergrads: perky; bright eyes of youth. Grads: sullen; dull sheen of not-quite-youth. Insignificance looms. Not more insignificant than the rest of us, just more conscious of it. From long hours on hard seats in small cubicles in cold library. Faces pageyellow. Degraded. Degraduate.

â??And what are you going to do now that you're done?

Oh come on, lady, you too? Stomach to brain: exercise discretion in how many times you have this conversation, otherwise when it really counts I'm going to puke all over Grandma. Brain here: initiating standard evasion protocol. Hands on deck. Smile wider. Endear. Pivot, and go:

â??Umâ?? nothing.

Well played. Still need practice. Her face. Thinks I'm joking. Mom and Dad too, but didn't laugh. Alarmed. Eyeswide like spotted an iceberg dead ahead. Dive, AWOOGAH. So you want to travel and figure things out before you enter the real world, that's fine but how are you going to support yourself? No, you don't understandâ??I don't need time to figure out what I want to do. I already know what I want to do. I want to do nothing. Let's talk about supporting that. AWOOGAH. No, parents disapprove in silence. Unsatisfied. Premature graduation.

Nothing can mean anything. Not no job, gotta eat. Just no career. Career fair, purgatory. Allen Building, belly of the beast. Nan's here, somewhere. Should pop in, say hello, deliver an informed and measured list of complaints. Customer is always right. Suffocated social life; chilly intellectual climate; parking.

â??Working hard, John?

â??On my swing, knowumsayin?

â??At the golf course instead of class, huh?

Freshman year econ major looked ahead to $75K per annum consulting the man; with this economy, ppffthh. Degraduation. The rats calculate the opportunity cost of X against the net loss of Y and that's why they're the first to jump ship, ratpaddle over to the non-profit boat orâ??betterâ??the law school schooner, cause lawyers never sink.

â??In fact, John's head downtilts letting in on little secret, I'm going to go on the Tour.

â??The tourâ?? oh, PGA?

His eyes close confidently, blissfully sublimely in doublewink. He's not even on the golf team, he can't really be. What do I know, maybe. He clings to his PGA Tour, I cling to my nothing. His is a bit more glorious, isn't it. My nothing is safer for longterm wellbeingâ??if he doesn't make it on the tour, failure. If I get a job, well, it's better than nothing. Figure for foolproof fantasy: fickle feet fall flat.

Good luck with that, John. What a rush to see would-be I-bankers shake in their shoes. And I with a mean grin. They blow four years in econ classes or writing memos with eyes on the IPO's and oops the GenX slackers beat them to it and here comes Dubya blastin' to send the rest to hell. America gets the president America deserves. He'll give more than that, maybe. Holyroller. End is nigh! Rapture. Graduate to heaven. New Bloomusalem. Gladjewnation. No, hebes and sinners left behind, and I'm both. Write a memo analyzing cost-benefit of apocalypse. Cost: pillars of the world collapse, antichrist rises to domination. Benefit: high brought low, CEOs and artists starve together. Plus, plenty to write. War correspondent in Armaggeddon. Interview Exclusive: the Fourth Horsemanâ??Signs, Scythes, Steamy Sex Secrets!

Dinky elevator. The postmodern American spoiled brat, has everything wants nothing. Education is a nap from which I am trying to awake. 13 years of grade school; 12 years of religious school; 3 1/2 years higher, highest tower in the South; helluva long wait in line, and they paid premium for my front row seat (scalped, $144,000) and the gates open and I present my ticket that says "Upon this day in December 2002, this Diblooma is awarded in certificatory announcement of the completion of scholarly preparation for entrance into the bifurcated arms of a benevolent world filled with opportunity, esteem and glory." And I have a five month head start so I walk through the gates and oh it is bright I've been in line inside so long and I spy sunny spot on the grassy hill supine above the glittering office buildings and. I cop a squat.

Pretty. Pretty buildings towering over two pretty brightdeadleaf trees with pretty girls walking briskly all around. 27 months of pretty buildings, trees and girls. Partied a little. Learned a good deal, not enough. Parents paid way too much. Tour group between brochurebright trees. Want to warn them. Go in go-getter, come out saddled with disillusions, heavy debt chains and unskills. Want to peel through that bus circle, diploma clenched in a raised fist as my cry is heard fading away from the Chapel steps. So long, suckers! Hm, could be headline for last column. Obnoxious. But graduation columns always. Who wants to read someone's innermost thoughts during a 9:10? Each one sprints to the same place. Ready? Set. Self-indulge! Nothing will stop me. Grad, you wait. Gradate. Just great.

Greg Bloom, a Trinity senior and a senior editor of Recess, wrote this instead of a Ulysses paper, which is due tomorrow.