This Place Will Last.

Dear Vanderbilt,

First and foremost, let me put out there that I realize you're moving on. You’ve made it clear to me via an extended and anticlimactic series of speeches that you are ready to say goodbye, and that’s fine. I know you've found a whole new class of someone elses now, and this letter is not going to be a plea to take me back.

We've had a good run. I can’t honestly say that I’m ready to bid you adieu, but for the sake of my pride and my well being, I'd rather remember our relationship and all the amazing times we've shared together in a positive light than dwell on the fact that you're ready to be happy without me. So I'm telling you from the getgo--I'm moving on too. I won't Facebook stalk you and obsess over photos of you and yours, I won't text you at inappropriate hours of the day and night (although, as you may remember, during your farewell speech you encouraged me to do so if I needed anything, even money), I won't resent that your feelings towards me have changed.

The four years I spent with you have been the best of my life. You've made me laugh, you've made me cry, you've made me laugh till I cry and cry till I laugh. I never realized when I stepped foot on your campus (a national arboretum! Things I won’t miss: allergies) that I would be meeting the place I may want to spend the rest of my life with.

When I first opened the door to my tiny cinder-block framed Kissam room (things I won’t miss, part II: The Office of Housing and Residential Education), my initial thoughts included: “Ooh, a lofted bed just like in college movies…sweet!,” “Why is the chick across the hall in a sundress, full makeup, and cowboy boots to unpack?”, and “Mommmmm can I have money to buy things to decorate?” My wee freshman mind didn’t even ponder the realm of events that would, until I called said office of Housing and Residential Education whining enough to be switched to a room in Branscomb, unfold in the 10X10 space on the fourth floor of Kissam Hall. That inhumanely small space was where I fell in love with my first college boyfriend, met some of my best friends, shared memories I will never forget and some I will never remember (Momma B, I know you told me over graduation that you read my blog, so apologies in advance).

Sophomore year was an upgrade. Oh, Peabody Commons, with your glorious and spacious lawns, the Commons Center that could be utilized for everything from studying to eating to inconspicuously pregaming. Sophomore year brought me closer to my campus, my sorority house, my classmates, my friends, and myself. Days were spent gallivanting from HOD classroom to HOD classroom and from fraternity porch to fraternity porch, nights were spent consuming food and wine on the Vandy card, dancing around downtown, and often holed up in the reading room of the Peabody Library, which does have both a fireplace and a glorious collection of children’s books (spare me, A+S).

Junior year was a series of ups and downs for you and I. I became fed up sometimes with more of the same—didn’t you have anything to offer me but fun? Entertainment was good and well, of course, but I was ready to get serious and I wasn’t sure if you could make the commitment. But meetings with advisors, long talks with friends, and yes, gallivanting from HOD classroom to HOD classroom and from fraternity porch to fraternity porch and from honky tonk to honky tonk proved to me that you really did care about me, and were in it for the long haul. I took on an extra major, made the decision to spend a semester abroad, and was forced to choose between adventure and stability in the worst way possible. Nonetheless, I came out stronger, more sure of myself and my goals and values, and with a plethora of wonderful stories to tell.

And then we got to senior year. I’ve always believed that one can’t properly reflect on something without the passing of time, and it hasn’t truly been long enough for me to decide how I feel about senior year. All I can say is that it was the best of times and the worst of times. The most amazing things that have happened to me during my time with you occurred this year, as did the worst. What I can say with certainty and definity is that I don’t regret a single choice, a single night, a single element of the string of events that led me, and us, to where we are now. You told me on our last day together that “this place will last,” and I truly believe it will. So here’s to: A traditional called raging. Waking up at 8 am for tailgates. V-U(!). 903. Sunset Grill. Dan McGuiness. The Stage. Costume parties. Towers. Pregames. Postgames. Taking beach vacations at least once a month. Formals. Informals. The Porch. Speeches. Crawfish. Late nights in Peabody, Stevenson, and The Dungeon. Gordon Gee. Nicholas Zeppos. Dolla Beal. Kristin Torrey. Jay-Z. Being young forever. The pursuit of happy-ness. CMSB. And finally, me and you.

Thanks for everything, Vanderbilt. I will always love you. Maybe, in the future, when we’re both more mature, we can give it another try.

Until then, with love, yours truly,

NB

Thing of the Day: Senior Week

Things I learned at Senior Beach Week:

1)I never want to live anywhere near Spartanburg, South Carolina. Above picture was taken in the parking lot of a Spartanburg McDonalds. Case in point.

2) All beach towns are basically identical. Some may think this is a mark of corporate capitalist America taking over all that was once good and pure, but I think it is really awesome. Reasons why include Senor Frogs, and souvenier shops. I have come home from Myrtle Beach several hundred dollars poorer but one hermit crab richer. Speaking of...

3)Responsibility sucks. I spent approximately $14 on a herbit crab, hermit crab food, a hermit crab habitat, and a nifty instruction manual at a wonderful corporate/capitalist America establishment called Wings (which also sold useful things such as chandeliers made out of shells, neon tanks, water balloon launchers, and shotglasses boasting "I got tipsy in Myrtle Beach" (you stay classy, spring breakers). Anyhow, since acquiring said hermit crab (Jamie La-A Esteban), I have been sporadically breaking into small fits of stress about whether it has enough crab food, whether I have moistened its' drinking sponge, and whether its habitat is warm enough. Last night at midnight I text messaged one of my roommates to move Jamie from his (or her. Google hasn't been helpful in teaching me how to determine Jamie's actual gender) spot on our kitchen counter to my room because I couldn't sleep thinking of how someone might knock over his (her) cage. Further Google research has showed that hermit crabs live approximately two weeks in the care of silly vacationing owners, and I have spent at least one hour today picking Jamie up to make sure he (she) is still alive.

4)Teenagers are crazy. The second night of Beach Week, I actually took the time out of pregaming to MTV News to save a note in my Blackberry reminding me to blog about this piece of groundbreaking news: Justin Bieber fans are sending Kim Kardashian DEATH THREATS because he Tweeted a picture of the two of them together calling her his girfriend. WTF, fourteen year old girls? Maybe it is because fourteen year olds are sort of out of my age range for potential boyfriends, but I really don't see what all the Justin Bieber fuss is about. Yeah, he's kind of hot for someone who has yet to go through puberty, but first, the video of a small child crying in suicidal fits because Justin Bieber isn't her boyfriend, and then death threats to Kimmy K? A slight bias because I adore Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber sounds like a girl when he sings and has a silly haircut, but mothers, control your teenagers. Why do teenagers even have Twitter? One really shouldn't be allowed to broadcast their opinions on the internet until they have exited puberty and can make fun of themselves/have unbiased opinions.

5)I really really really love my graduating class. Yes, you guys. I have spent today doing useful and important things such as letting Jamie crawl from my left hand to my right and emailing strangers whose blogs I admire in order to avoid packing up my apartment for my impending departure in a week. If my stuff is still here, Vanderbilt can't make me leave, right?

Thing of the Day: Sabotage

Clearly the Gods of Natural Disasters/Oil Spills have something against the Vanderbilt graduating class of 2010, since in the past two days have brought:

1. The relocation of senior beach week from Destin, FL to Myrtle Beach, SC. Thanks, BP. Although it really is extremely impressive how rapidly the senior class rallied when massive oil spills threatened drinking on the beach activities.

2. APOCALYPSE 2010. A 20 inch downpour has completely flooded the city of Nashville! The above photos are just a few of many of what is going on in Tennessee. Both these pictures were taken Monday on the exact street of bars on which we had our senior pub crawl Saturday, and are really fairly scary, considering that yesterday when my boyfriend and roommates learned that the city was on a flood warning, we rejoiced at the cancellation of Monday finals and spent the day eating at the two restaurants that weren't closed (Cheesecake Factory & P.F Chang's in one day? *Embarrased emoticon*), and spending copious amounts of money at Target on rainy day activities (Buzzword, Mancala, 750 piece GLOW IN THE DARK puzzle).

The Vanderbilt campus was for the most part unaffected by the floods, but several dorms shut down and a particularly low-rise parking lot was completely drowned. Ironically, it was 80 degrees and sunny today as we surveyed the damage and felt guilty for spending 7 hours on a puzzle yesterday when the city was in crisis. I think I'm volunteering tomorrow with Hands On Nashville to make up for assembling a 750 piece skyline instead of taking note as Nashvegas turned into Lake Nashville.

Karmic retributions complete, rain storms? oil spills? I can't help but ask--does anyone else see it as a blatant sign from above that Vanderbilt doesn't want us to leave?