I’ve traveled all the way to your heart, Pitt. I’m standing in our special place, the 16th… I’ve traveled all the way to your heart, Pitt. I’m standing in our special place, the 16th floor balcony of the Cathedral of Learning. I crawled through the half-open window on my belly to be here with you tonight. I don’t quite know how to say this; it’s going to be really hard for me.

We’re breaking up.

Shhh. Don’t say anything.

It wasn’t always easy, Pitt. It’s not that I don’t love you any more; this just isn’t right any more. I thought about intentionally failing my classes this semester so I could stick around and figure things out a little longer, but I just can’t. It’s time for me to go.

I lay with you in the mystic fields of the William Pitt Union lawn, ate with you at Schenley and slept with you in Towers’ unstable beds. I leaned on you as I wasted time between classes. You were always there to support me.

There was a time when I huddled in your stairwells and cried at the David Lawrence Hall computer lab. Your strong granite lap held me as I tried to understand Descartes. My education helped me fake it. I might have had a nervous breakdown, but you remained unshakeable. Your vending machines nourished and caffeinated me.

Freshman year, I was heaving up Vladamir Vodka on the corner of Forbes Avenue and Bouquet Street, spewing forth the chunks of our blossoming relationship. But I didn’t die, Pitt. I became stronger. We became a lot closer after that. Your business calculus and subjective assessment disturbed me, but I learned to live with it. Oh, Pitt, it’s been so long since then. I passed quantitative reasoning this year, thanks to your kind and malleable curriculum.

You saw me through the hard times, Pitt. You always had a great sense of humor. It was one of the things I loved about you. When I was late to class, you always greeted me with a broken elevator or inter-hallway tangle of pungent, bleating humanity. When I did poorly on an exam, it was likely that the rest of the class did well.

I see the wistful tears in your eyes, Pitt. I feel the memories, too. Oh, Pitt, how I’ve loved you. But it’s gone too far. When we lived together in Holland Hall, we became codependent. It wasn’t long before I was staying up all night, living on Diet Mountain Dew and Sudafed, learning about good music and better beer. I’ve had a great time these past four years, but I can’t do this to myself any more.

In light of our separation, I would like to clear my conscience by making a few confessions. I brought food and drink into the library in containers that were not spill-proof. I put paper into the garbage bins marked “Cans Only.” I used the crosswalks when the little red hand lit up. I filled in only half the bubble and made my mark light. I walked carelessly across wet floors marked by yellow signs, pretending I couldn’t understand what “cuidado” means. I’ve been rebelling against you for some time now.

All this time you thought you knew me, but you don’t. Don’t act like you do. You hardly pay any attention to me anymore. Did you know that my remaining session duration at the library has always been 1440 minutes, and I’ve only used up seven of them?

Clearly you were impregnating someone else’s unwilling mind with your incessant grail of knowledge. I should have known. It wasn’t special to you, Pitt. And here I am thinking you were different.

You know what, Pitt? I realize that I’ve never been your priority. Trying to buy a book is evidence enough of that. You disgust me, you marble-faced rhombus of citied blockade. You’re changing, Pitt, and you’re spreading out too. I feel like I don’t even know you any more: The parking lot at Hillman is soon to become a beautiful enchanted forest, right here in the middle of the city.

Exquisite tulips in perfect patterns have majestically sprung from the ground. Am I supposed to believe they were there all year and just magically blossomed in their full, adult forms? I don’t believe you. I’m on to you. You’ve been looking nice lately for those tiny little creatures I see coming for tours with their parents. You have a roaming eye, Pitt, and an erected monument. You should be ashamed.

I’ve submitted a formal letter to Chancellor Mark Nordenberg. We’re done. It’s over. It’s not you; it’s me. Let’s just be friends. I’ve grown past the need for you. But I’m really going to miss you. I’m going to sit up here on the 16th floor balcony for just another minute before I go.

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