Hold Your Horses!

(To be read to the sound of a full-fledged Symphony Orchestra tuning their instruments before a tempestuous concert, in forceful anticipating strain)

Woke up this morning drowning in a sweat soaked bed; my mind cooking an anxiety attack with a dash of salty persecution paranoia. Ever since I came back to New York from the break, I am in a state of Unagi: my muscles are tensioned like Seabiscuit waiting to snap out of the gate at the sound of the gunshot. But the rapt attention in class from semesters past is absent; I have reached a point where I can see only the professor's socks as he chews muffled words like Charlie Brown's teacher. The hair on the back of my neck is always pointing towards Mecca; I have the creepy suspicious look of the girl in the "Walk like an Egyptian" video. I didn't hand in my last article before deadline. I even disrespected the Bing. This self-induced mind storm is unjustified, and not only because my life is perfect today: I just came back from a month surfing in the paradisiacal beaches of Brazil; where spirits are free, bikinis are muito pequenos and caipirinhas are sold in bulk. Most of you also traveled abroad. I'm also skiing next week with 13 of my fellow Sternies, a trip which promises to deliver a high-octane dose of swashbuckling adventure. Can it be my diet, you worriedly inquire? I usually chow down on hippie-unapproved biogenetically engineered selections from every food group, but vegetables nonetheless, so that's not it. I exercise a lot; add a mustache and I'd pass for a 19th century boxer. And the rest of my physical needs are very well taken care of, don't you fret about that. But, thing is, I asked for it. I have a job lined up after graduation in Ringling Brothers, you know that. That should be the cherry on top. But that's just it. This milestone signifies the end of the MBA. I sold my soul for two years of explosive binging and frolicking and revelry, as well as the opportunity to stay here afterwards, and the devil has finally decided to ask for the check in a life of banking. L'addition s'il vous plait! (Lucifer sounds French, doesn't he?). I'm clinically depressed because I know it will all be over soon. I'm also sad that so many international students are going home to work in their own countries, draining New York of a hodgepodge of fascinating folk. Even a handful of my American friends will be dragging themselves out to some remote coast that they promise me does exist on the west side of the US. I never heard such a ridiculous claim! I didn't realize there was anything civilized west of Pennsylvania. (Look who's talking, Mr. Frijoles here). But now wait just a minute. As the great philosopher Bodhi wisely pointed out in Point Break: "If you want the ultimate, you've got to be willing to pay the ultimate price." The big hand points to February and "the little hand says it's time to rock and roll!" It's not graduation yet. Hold your horses, Beelzebub, I'm sure you still have room for dessert; sit the fuck back down. This is our last semester, so let's make it count. And you have to feel good because selling your soul was totally worth it. Old people warn us that we should wear sunscreen and that we shouldn't wait to be happy until the next big 'something' happens in our lives. But right now it's the exact opposite. I'm definitely delaying this stage of my life. As another wise philosopher, Mr. Ferris Bueller said: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look back once in a while, you could miss it." So drink one last red bull and gather what energy you have left to squeeze all the juice out of the MBA experience from the simplest, purest, most fun, ugly and badly lit basement in the world, the basement of beer blast.

Oh, and devil? Give us your best shot, we'll be ready.

(A violent symphony begins in unrestrainable candor, as the best song in the history of the world by Tenacious D starts playing and blows your mind away.)