Not that I particularly liked the boots. No; actually, I hated them very much. I hated their puffy white salt-stained exterior and the pink and purple stripes that criss-crossed it, like  pre-fake-English-accent-Madonna moon-man boots. But when my mother dangled first the left boot, and then the right, over the trash can, humming "Taps" throughout the whole ordeal (she particularly relished her role in the boot funeral), I would have done anything to spare those boots, including setting myself and my Cabbage Patch Kid on fire.

     I was also very distressed when my parents threw away their mattress about a year later. They still talk about it from time to time, usually in one of those embarrassing conversations that revolve around every stupid thing I’ve ever done, including the time I peed my pants on the fourth of July, because my suffering is funny.

     I still don’t know why I cried about it; perhaps I knew in my feeble brain that it was the mattress I had been conceived on (although this is not a particularly healthy piece of knowledge for a five-year-old to have) or maybe I just hated to see a good box spring go to waste. But I wailed for the mattress’ misfortune for hours, or at least until "Gummi Bears" came on. But even then I came to the television a sadder, wiser child, no stranger to the world of love and loss. My friend Captain Mattress was gone, and the world was a bleaker place.

    I guess you could say I have attachment issues.

    It was no better when I graduated from high school; months before the big day, I began composing sad "good-bye to our golden days" poetry and imagined myself reading it before my entire graduating class, their eyes misty with regret. "Why didn’t we treat the ugly girl with more respect?" they would say to themselves. "She obviously has a great soul, although her hair could use some work." And I would get the best table at our twenty-fifth reunion and glasses would be raised high to me and my touching, touching poem, which would live on forever as an anthem to those great lost days of our richly spent youth.

    But then I actually showed the poem to one of my teachers, who had the nerve to ask me if "graduation" and "self-immolation" rhymed. So I said screw them all, and decided to save my regret until the end of college. Golden days my ass.

    But now that end has finally come, and I don’t really know what to do. Clearly writing another poem is out of the question, as my poetic skills have been defined as being in the fair-to-butt-sucky range. And sitting around and crying about it, flipping forlornly through my photo albums while pathetically humming "I’ve Had the Time of My Life," would not only be unproductive but incredibly lame, thereby lowering myself to a level of lameness so lame even I would feel compelled to beat myself about the head and neck. And that is pretty lame.

    The truth is that I’ve already cried about it, and yes, maybe even hummed a little bit (curse that Eric Carmen and his sappy songs, curse him!)

     My experience at Ashland University has been the most important factor in determining who I am, and now it’s over.

    It was here that I learned that if you don’t empty the lint trap, your dryer will catch fire.

    I learned that popcorn will always catch fire at three a.m. the night before you have a big exam, prompting a mass exodus to the honk-honk-honk of an Amstutz fire alarm. I learned that it is a good idea to bring your keys with you during these fire alarms. I learned how much it cost to have Safety Services open your door for you.

    I learned that I can drink five Long Island Iced Teas without throwing up, and that it is entirely possible to vomit standing up.

    I learned eight hundred ways to download mp3s from the Internet. I learned the words to "The Ballad of Billy Jack."

    I learned how to write papers in two hours and procrastinate on them for 72. I learned the secret to escaping from Juba-Juba’s belly in "Zelda: Ocarina of Time."

    I learned that if you want your professor to take you to the Accent Room, you have to call him a bad word.

    But most importantly I learned what it is like to be on top of the world and at the bottom of the barrel. I learned who my friends are and who they aren’t, and how to tell the difference. I learned how to deal with failure and how to cope with success. I learned how to be my own person, even if it means talking about my boobs. A lot.

    I did not, however, ever learn Dr. Benz’ first name.

    I don’t want to be melodramatic—this is not high school, and I can’t think of any words that rhyme with "massive debt" or "grilled hoki." I know that college is not the end of my existence, and that many even better things will come along—my MFA, my marriage to Fabio, my rock hard six-pack, my multiple Pulitzers. College was the best thing ever to happen to me so far, but I’ve got a lot of living to do.

    But I think I still need a little more time with my photo album…