I can’t talk long; I have to go throw myself off a bridge.

    There are some problems in this world that can be overcome—nuclear destruction, for example, or the cancellation of "Full House." But I don’t know about this one. It’s so heinous, I don’t even know if I can share it with you, lest you grow suicidal, as well.

    But I might as well. No use hiding the ugly truth from everyone any longer.

    I’m not in the yearbook nearly enough this year.

    Now, of course I realize that this is due almost entirely to the fact that, instead of going out and joining clubs and getting involved last year, I chose to sit in my room, watch pro wrestling, and play toilet paper ninjas with the girls who lived next door to me.

    However, I would rather, instead of placing the blame on myself, pass it off as a great conspiracy, a conspiracy against the puffy-haired girls of the world, whose pictures never make it into the yearbook not because they are lazy and uncoordinated, but because they are the object of an international plan to keep them down.

    I believe Patrick Duffy is behind this plan.

    But the nefariousness of the paternal figure of TV’s "Step By Step" is not the issue here. The issue is that, twenty years from now, my children are not going to believe I went to college at all, and simply superimposed pictures of myself into other pictures in the yearbook (which is, oddly enough, what I thought about my own parents for the longest time. And my dad has puffy hair, too—hmm….)

    So this year, I intend to do something about this atrocious oversight, not just for me, but for all the underphotographed, underappreciated lazy suckers who walk the hallowed halls of this institution. I am starting a club.

    And not just any club. The I’m Only Here To Get My Picture In The Yearbook Club.

    It’s perfect for people like me, who are much too engrossed in their latest Chutes and Ladders tournament to leave their halls for meetings or Greek functions. We will only meet once, to get our picture taken for the yearbook.

    Then, after the photographer has snapped his official shots, we will lock him in the auditorium and force him to watch reruns of "Dallas" starring Patrick Duffy while we take his camera and use it to take pictures of each other, which, because they are on the photographer’s roll of film, are bound by some sort of biblical law to make it into the yearbook.

    (I know this because in middle school the yearbook photographer chose to put in the worst picture of me ever taken, and I refuse to assume that he is just the most evil man on earth and felt bound by some sort of higher power to force me to endure comments like "That’s an interesting sweater, what peasant in Hungary did you have to kill to get it?" and "Maaaaaaan, are you ugly!")

    Then, in twenty years, when my kids want to see pictures of me in my college yearbook, I can gladly flip to the I’m Only Here To Get My Picture In The Yearbook Club page and prove to them that I was indeed a moving force on our campus.

    So if you’re interested in joining, call me today! As founder, president, and chief financial officer of the I’m Only Here To Get My Picture In The Yearbook Club, I can tell you without exaggeration that openings in the roster are filling fast. All you have to do to join is want to have your picture in the yearbook. A lot. And hate Patrick Duffy.

    Oh, and send in your dues payment. $150’s not too much to ask, is it? Just make it payable to me, Kim Shable.