Nursing a hangover from my third liver-damaging NSO, I looked up from my “Big Breakfast” special at Philly Diner and pondered what kind of year could follow such an auspicious beginning. As I gulped down the finest tap water the great city of Philadelphia has to offer I came to a sudden and scary realization: I’ve spent more time at this fine institution than I’ve got left. All at once I was hit with an overwhelming sensation that I’d wasted the entirety of my enjoyable living years. My palms got sweaty and my mind began racing. “Crap,” I thought to myself, “You’re over the hill! You’re toast! Get yourself an AARP card ‘cause if you’re ‘round the bend you might as well get the senior citizens’ discount!”

After a few drags from my inhaler and a stiff slap in the face, I was back to reality It was then I remembered that I’ve never bought alcohol without fear of a SWAT team descending upon me and confiscating my fake ID. I call my mom regularly for advice on how to get tomato sauce out of my white tshirts. Hell, I’m not even a senior. But I’ve got two years down as a Quaker and only a few lousy transcripts and an Ibby Jaaber playing card to show for it. Really, my greatest contribution to this student community may very well be the time in calculus when I gave a one-man American Idol audition for the entire lecture hall. Apparently when you listen to Jimi Hendrix’s live rendition of Wild Thing in a silent classroom and begin to sing at what you think is a low volume everyone can hear you—even the professor. Maybe now it’s becoming clear why I’m a little worried about having only two years left in school: I haven’t accomplished shit.

It was about this moment that I realized something else: not only hadn’t I accomplished anything in the seven hundred days I’d spent as a Penn student, but I hadn’t even tried to accomplish anything. Hell, I didn’t even know what I wanted to accomplish or even what I possibly could accomplish at school besides a halfway decent GPA and killing thirty packs of PBR. Immediately, I ran home, grabbed a pen, a napkin, and a pint of Jack Daniel’s, and began scrawling incoherent ramblings that I passed off as a three-month-early new year’s resolution. Exhausted from this bout of thinking, I decided it was time to rest. So I turned on an episode of Seinfeld and passed out on the couch with a half eaten pop tart resting on my belly. It’s exactly this sort of decision making that has put me in the position of scribbling goals such as “have sex under the button” on the back of a napkin. When I awoke on my stomach with a half eaten pop tart plastered to my abdomen and a fistful of stupid ambitions and aspirations, I knew the time had come to actually do something about my life. What follows is the more realistic, more significant, more… sober set of three goals I came up with after this pop-tart incident.

First, I’m going to explore this city. I live a stone’s throw from downtown Philadelphia and the closest thing I’ve done to utilizing everything it has to offer is going to a crush party at Shampoo. Luckily, I still have two years and a whole bunch of holein- the-wall shops to buy ridiculous trinkets from, BYOs at which to get embarrassingly drunk, and random old colonial buildings to look at, nod, and say with a quiet confidence, “I bet Ben Franklin used to spit game to fly hunnies here.” Seriously, that man was a pimp. He totally had sex all over this city.

Second, taking a page from the great pragmatist’s book, I’m going to make a concerted effort to meet girls. And not just drunk freshmen waiting in line for the keg at a frat party either. I’m talking real, substantial, intelligent, meaningful girls. There are nearly five thousand eligible female undergrads at this school, and through some miracle of God I’ve managed to avoid every one that I can stand and every one that can stand me. Okay, so it’s not by God’s hand that this has happened; its partly my lack of hygiene, partly my lack of manners, and mostly my fear that every living female intends to steal my life away, but who says those things can’t change?

The third, final, and most important of these goals is my intention to leave my mark on this school. The first step in that was writing this article—being published in a Penn periodical at least gives some nonacademic indication that I actually ever attended school here. But really, I’m looking for something bigger, something better. And, as of yet, the light bulb above my head is still dimly silent on this one. Sure it’s flickered momentarily – I could streak at a football game! I could run for student body president! I could try and set the record for most Hemo’s sandwiches consumed in one semester! But all those ideas suck: nobody goes to those games, I’m no good at shaking hands and kissing babies, and I certainly wouldn’t want to see my dining dollars go unused. Damn it! I need an idea! I need something... ah, hell, who am I kidding? I’ll never make my mark here! Who the fuck do I think I am, John Legend? Forget it, forget the plans, forget the girls, the city, forget it all! Who wants to go to Blarneys? I need a drink.