I’d be lying to you if I told you I had advice worth taking or a story worth telling.

I’m 21 years old and anything preachy or sappy would just be nauseating. Let’s not kid ourselves – college was easy, a hell of a lot of fun and now it’s over.

So sit down, shut up and . I can’t even type that with a straight face.

While I’ve clearly learned plenty of things since I got here, there’s one thing I’m sure of: We Georgetown kids are ridiculous.

We like the worst music and even worse movies (except, of course, for the E St. Cinema-Croupier-New Yorker or Alterna-Indie-Brit-miscellaneous-compound-adjective kids, who are ridiculous in their own right).

I lived in an apartment one year that had three copies of Center Stage. This fall, when out-of-state friends asked if I could find them weed, I had to tell them that my 12 best friends were busy watching Mean Girls for the eighth time. No, I can’t score you pot.

We have all hooked up with each other far too many times, although never that oft-anticipated threesome, I might add. I would say that no one should ever hook up with someone referred to as “Frenchette” or “fat girl from freshman year,” but then I’d be conveniently ignoring names prefaced by “physics,”sketchy” and “stalker” – note that “tall, cute” and “hot” are depressingly absent from that list.

My thought on it is this: If you can’t come up with a good excuse, you better pray to God he’s a good kisser.

A lot of our ridiculousness (read: dancing on tables) can be attributed to death cup, bitch beer and for a while there, oatmeal stout.

We’ve puked up pink peeps, Rumple Mintz, a lot of champagne, grape Jell-O shots and Mad Monk. We’ve thrown up in cabs, in foreign countries and on our friends’ backs.

We have dressed up in stupid costumes for no reason – team Hot, team I Love Myself and team We Just Hooked Up among my favorites. Even our everyday outfits (pink team, CPC uniforms, sweatpants) had a tendency to slip into outlandish territory.

I’m not trying to say we don’t do ridiculous things every day. Porno tapes have been taken out to put in George C. arshall biographies. We can quote about three different things: “The West Wing: Season 1,”The West Wing: Season 2” and “The West Wing: Season 3.” We – ok, maybe just I – have gotten clinically obsessed with simulation war games. And although a lot of time and energy has been put into making fun of A.H., I tried to teach myself Farsi.

I’ve been Donnie Darko on several occasions so, in a moment of weakness, I apologize with no regrets. But y’all have gone dark in your own ways, too: great food, merriment and libation as my most recent haunt; London, Spain and the Villa for study abroad; Leavey 421 for a semester of Bangkok Bistro, pica math and a general tch-tch-tch-ing; the bathroom in the Pierce Reading Room after every trip to Chipotle.

We have been so goddamn ridiculous – it’s almost cliched and definitely predictable.

And now it’s over.

There is no 100th Day at the Tombs.

You’ve definitely run out of last chance lectures.

It’s called a swoop and squat.

Smarter?

Yes.

Wiser?

Hell no.

If you want advice, call me in 20 years. I hope to God I’ll have something to say by then.

But for now, I’m just going to try to hang onto the ridiculousness a little longer.

Erin Brown is a senior in the School of Foreign Service. She is a former managing editor, associate editor, senior GUIDE editor, contributing editor and member of THE HOYA’s board of directors.