No more classes. I’ve put in my four years, my $30,000, and my good old college try. In… No more classes. I’ve put in my four years, my $30,000, and my good old college try. In return, I’ll get a degree in English writing – not that I plan to use it – a few good memories, and some lingering student loans.

No more work at the student newspaper. I’ve sacrificed four years, my social life and a dedication far greater than that which I could muster for my classes. In return, I got best friends, the feeling that I can positively affect change, and job skills – not that I plan to get one.

No more drinking on a Monday afternoon. Apparently that’s only truly accepted in a collegiate setting.

No more cramming to study material I’ll forget minutes after the test. It’s not an effective way to learn, but it’s the way I “learned” everything I was taught in college. Next week, I’m going to pick up a book and read it for leisure. It’s something I haven’t done since seventh grade.

No more missing family dinners at my mom’s house because I have to work or study. Repeat after me: Work cannot possibly be more important than loved ones. It’s something I forgot until I became overwhelmed with work at school, work at the paper, and work on a start-up family business renovating old homes.

No more trashy, dirty and somehow uniquely enjoyable South Oakland parties. Unless they are held at my younger brother’s house – that qualifies as family time, right?

No more Chancellor Challenge. I regret that the campaign to have Mark Nordenberg return portions of his oversized raise didn’t succeed. But I’m proud to report that almost everyone is now acutely aware of how much money our chancellor makes, and what sorts of raises Pitt’s non-administrative employees received last year. Nordenberg held out longer – after all, I have to graduate. But I’d appreciate it if someone would please mention to Telefund that it wouldn’t be a good idea to call me until Pitt begins compensating all of its workers as if they were humans.

No more dressing up in a black cloak and parading around campus at midnight with other tool-ish campus leaders. That’s right: I’m dropping out of Druids. I just can’t stand the thought of playing another round of “Magic: The Gathering” in our special secret room in the Cathedral of Learning. Oh yeah, and I don’t dig our blind support for the same University regime that takes all non-Druid students for granted.

No more Student Government Board. Now I’ll have to pay to go to the circus.

No more will I be able to tell people that I’m working my way through college. Instead, I’ll have to tell them that I’ve just graduated, and no, I don’t have a job. I don’t even want a job – ever. If I can make this miniature real estate career take off, I’m perfectly content to never work in an office again.

No more office on the fourth floor of the William Pitt Union, complete with a couch for sleeping, a photocopier for the occasional retinal scan, and a dozen of the hardest-working, hardest-partying students at Pitt.

No more ’80s night at the Attic, J.C.’s Beer Cult at Fuel ‘ Fuddle, karaoke at Bootleggers or dollar drafts at Hemingway’s. On second thought, I’ll probably come back for those dollar drafts.

No more paychecks from The Pitt News: a dismal realization that further solidifies the importance of returning to Oakland for dollar drafts.

No more french fries at The Original Hot Dog Shop at 3 in the morning. However, I suspect that – like all alumni – by the time I am 40 the only thing I will remember about college is The “O.”

No more witnessing the excitement of the first days of the fall semester. No more making new friends in new classes. No more dancing in the yellow move-in carts in Bouquet Gardens, no more taking visiting friends and relatives on tours of the Cathedral, no more free bus rides, no more free T-shirts, and no more college.

All of it amounts to an unfamiliar mixing of utter relief and nostalgic sorrow – mania and depression at once.

I will miss every second of it. Thank God I’m finally done.

At 12:01 p.m. today, Dave Hartman, editor in chief, will become Dave Hartman, unemployed construction guy. At 12:04 p.m., please join him for a drink at Hemingway’s Cafe.