As I thought about sitting down to write my final opinion piece for the Echo before I graduate (by the good grace of God) in a few weeks, only one thing ever really crossed my mind as the appropriate thing to do in this ultimate article: apologize. I’ve spent four years of varying eventfulness on this campus, and as the end (perhaps mercifully) finally comes careening into view, it becomes evident to me that I probably owe a “sorry” or two to a few personages scattered around this campus and in the greater Waterville area.

So first and foremost, sorry to all the staff at MaineGeneral Medical Center’s Thayer Campus. Sorry for deeming the ER an appropriate venue to fine-tune my stand-up comedy routine as you good folks attempted to tend to an injury self-inflicted by my smarmy, inebriated ass. In my mind, when I was there I was killing it like Richard Pryor at the Circle Star Theatre, when more accurately my material was probably about as well-received as Michael Richard’s racist tirade at the Laugh Factory in 2006. I thought I could win the nursing staff over with my self-deprecating charm, but perhaps my act wore thin by the fourth or fifth time I referred to myself as a “dildo,” responded “teenage angst” or “because I’m an asshole” when politely asked how my injury occurred, or answered “filled with self-loathing” when asked how I was feeling. This forum feels like an inadequate forum to fully deliver the apology truly merited by the staff at that medical facility, so before my time runs out in Waterville I plan on sending a formal epistle their way that both apologizes for my idiocy and thanks them for their admirable patience in putting up with me. Maybe I’ll even throw in a fruit basket.

Second, I’d like to apologize to the roommates I’ve had over the years for having to put up with my wildly vacillating moods and neurotic ramblings, particularly my roommates this year as my neuroticism soared (and continues to soar) to previously uncharted heights. I’m fully aware that my psychological instabilities, penchant for leaving dirty dishes in the sink, general lack of hygiene and proclivity for making uncouth and vulgar statements from my mouth simply for the sake of invoking revulsion in those around me make me about as pleasant to live with at times as Robert De Niro’s Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull.

Third, I’d like to apologize to the Echo readership subjected to my drivel on the op-ed page on a near-weekly basis since the start of the year. Such routine exposure to the caustic writings excreted from my cerebellum constitutes nothing short of a crime against humanity. For the love of God, underclassmen, please put a stop to this and start submitting thoughtful opinion pieces to the Echo next year, depriving nihilistic bastards like myself of the opportunity to plague and populate the pages of our school’s fine publication with rants ranging in content from the scatological to the simply inane. Necessarily bound up with this apology to the greater student body is an apology to kindly and considerate opinion editor Daren McGregor, who, given the frequently disheartening dearth of op-ed pieces submitted to the Echo by students here, has had no choice but to so often allow my smut to taint the pages of the paper.

Also, I’d like to apologize to anyone who has ever been unfortunate enough to have taken a class with me and has been forced to sit there and listen to my pained in-class contributions. What I lack in powers of articulation I thankfully more than make up for in sheer nervousness, which no doubt contributes to a comfortable academic environment for everyone who has to bear witness to my shaking hands and listen to my quivering voice as I promulgate some vapid point to the professor and students around me. If there was any sort of divine justice in this world, you would receive some of your tuition money back every time I opened my mouth.

Sorry to all the girls on campus who have been subjected to my pathetic and often misguided forays into the world of socializing with the opposite sex. Sorry to any woman on this campus who ever talked to me in a social setting while I struggled to maintain eye contact and quell the nervous twitch in my upper lip. In my defense, though, it’s tough coming into college when you’re a late-blooming, sheltered, poorly socially adjusted kid from Cape Cod whose knowledge of women finds its foundation in episodes of The Real World: Paris and Daria.

Also, sorry to the staff at the Subway located on Kennedy Memorial Drive for that Saturday afternoon this fall when I ordered a sandwich, only to realize that I didn’t have any money on me by the time I got to the register and then had to drive to the Bank of America ATM on the other side of town while you considerately set my sandwich aside, trusting that I would return to pay for it. I just wanted to apologize for any irritation or inconvenience that this situation caused.

As I look back on the trajectory of my Colby career, and the days all rise and stand up before me, like they do for Ethan Fromme before he kills himself sledding in the end of Edith Wharton’s lackluster novel, I truly feel like I’ve done enough damage during my Colby career. I think the most prudent action for me at the moment would be to shut the hell up, return to my single in the Apartments, lock the door and just twiddle my thumbs until graduation.