As a Student Life/Cadenza tradition, seniors write farewell articles for the Commencement issue that you are now holding in your hands. Previous submissions have both managed to offend every single person on campus and offered to buy everyone drinks. I am too diffident and poor to accomplish either of those things.

I am in no position to offer any advice, and if you insist on me giving some, it will most likely come in the form of a “30 Rock” quote, like “Live every week like it’s shark week” or “You need to wear a bra.” I can honestly say I do at least one of these every day.

I also know that if you’ve ever met me or read anything I’ve written, you probably expect me to write some snarky, sardonic piece on something, like how spooning with your freshman floor is probably one of the most ridiculously unnecessary events in the history of Senior Week. Seriously. I’d rather watch an “Outsourced” marathon.

Instead, I am going to selfishly use this venue to thank people. Sincerely. Like they do on the Academy Awards. Only there is no music to cut me off. So prepare yourselves because I’m going to go all Best Sound Mixing guy on you.

Thanks for reading my inane articles about college movies, the current location of Kel Mitchell, and bad cable movie dubs.

Thanks for being the best co-editor a girl could ask for. We were always so on top of things.

Thanks for literally dragging me up the Kelso Sand Dunes and Waipio Valley and waiting about three extra hours for me to reach the top.

Thanks for hosting and attending weekly potlucks.

Thanks for offering to sleep outside so I could sleep in the car when she-who-shall-not-be named forgot the tent poles on our camping trip.

Thanks for saving me from spending more than 12 hours at LAX.

Thanks for getting as annoyed as I do when people you’ve met multiple times don’t say “Hi” to you on campus.

Thanks for going to Zumba classes where sangria is offered instead of water.

Thanks for being intrigued by stone babies, strange addictions and extreme couponing.

Thanks for not blocking or deleting my number from your phone despite the incessant, three-page long, sometimes passive aggressive, usually slightly inebriated texts that I have been sending you for four years now.

Thanks for always allowing me to raid your shoes and dresses, and for matching my apathy.

Thanks for leading our laser tag team to victory. Those 9-year-olds had no idea what hit them.

Thanks for still being friends with me despite my pointing out a possible resemblance to a certain Muppet.

Thanks for sending me the greatest messages from abroad; I always look forward to those emails.

Thanks for making crossword puzzles an integral part of lunch.

Thanks for living with me for three years, for being the Ella Fitzgerald to my Louis Armstrong, for cooking dinner every night, for late-night talks, for tolerating my getting hooked on songs by the likes of Leona Lewis, Pink, and Wilson Phillips, for going to the Creation Museum, for also knowing all the words to “One Week” by BNL, for being streets ahead, for enabling my crazy reasoning behind various life choices, for “It’s not your fault,” for rubber band balls, for not smacking or evicting me while I was in the midst of my thesis death and probably one of the worst people then walking the earth, and for being my best friends.

Thanks for putting up with my constant sarcasm and cynicism, and for knowing that I really only think everything is the worst 43 percent of the time.

And lastly, a specific thanks to my amazing parents, for being the only people to have read every single article I have written, despite usually not having any idea what I’m talking about, much like in this one.