Mr. Rogers Did Not Teach You SHIT

Dear neighbor:

You have been blasting classic rock at 9AM or 10AM practically every single Saturday or Sunday morning for this entire school year. We have been plenty kind about this incredibly annoying act, especially because the weekend is for sleeping in and said classic-rock-blasting is crucial in preventing this joyous process.

I am about to graduate. I no longer give less than one-tenth of a lab rat's shit about your opinion. So do not come bitch at me because I decided to turn my speakers toward my ceilings and pump such childhood-memory-inducing Golden-Age-of-Disney classics such as "A Whole New World," "Beauty and the Beast," and "The Circle of Life." You have a point about my singing along at the top of my lungs to said songs, so I will give you that and I will stop. But your request for me to stop washing myself in my childhood fantasies will go unfulfilled.

I am about to cross into an entirely new stage of my life and there are certain promenary procedures I must undergo in order to emotionally prepare myself for this key transition. Consider it an emotional and mental baptism and atonement for the past sixteen educated years of my life, minus the guilt and religious affiliations. One part of me is elated that I am done with formal education for a little while. Another part of me is soberly depressed that I will never have a time like this again. The real world beckons. Disney songs are how I cope. Apparently classic rock is how you cope. Deal, mang.

But a sincere good luck on finals, from the bottom of my heart. The University of California, Berkeley boasts 32 libraries. I suggest you make use of at least one of them to study quietly, because my ass is parked in my room and it is going to be a motherfucking Disney paradise in here, I shit you not.