Published: April 30, 2009

This is it, huh? The end of Feifei’s reign of terror at Fordham University. Where in the world is Feifei headed next to spread mayhem and anarchy? Short answer: Czechoslovakia. What’s that you say—Czechoslovakia hasn’t existed for 17 years? SUCK IT, POINDEXTER. If you want facts, go read an encyclopedia. Me, I’ll stick to my own brand of truth: lies. And there’s nothing I like to lie about more than how crappy the last four years of my life were. But the truth is: I had a good time; I just have a few things I need to say before I go.

Things I Will Not Miss About Fordham University

Jesuit Values (Cura Personalis)

I get it, Fordham. You love Jesus. You’re that slightly awkward, ever-smiling, plain girl with a sensible button-top t-shirt and thin singing voice. We knew that you loved Jesus when we chose to attend you, Fordham (or were rejected by NYU and had no other choice), but do you have to constantly preach about it? We know that, just like sweet little Christian girls everywhere, the harder you preach, the larger the hypocrisy. Take the dorms’ guest pass policy: cohabitation/pre-marital sex is a sin, so no overnight guests of the opposite sex in McMahon Hall. Okay, I’m on board. So why is it that law students can have them? Because I’m sure that my law school friend has his girlfriend stay over all the time and they don’t do anything but have pre-marital sex. (By “friend” I mean “the guy I watch with binoculars.”) The law students go to the same Jesuit school we do, right? So is it that if you’re having pre-marital sex after the age of 22, God stops caring? Also, Fordham, you do realize that there are some gay people that go to school here, right? So is it that if you’re having pre-marital sex with other gay people, God stops caring? Maybe I read the wrong Bible.

Every dean of anything

With very few exceptions, every dean here at Fordham has tried to convince me I’m crazy. I was sitting in class the other day when Dean Graham, dressed in full camouflage, leapt out of a ventilation shaft in the ceiling and screamed, “ASK ME AGAIN TO PUT YOU IN A NIGHT CLASS, BITCHES.” Sheesh. What a drama queen. Anyway, you’d think that little things that the deans could do, like taking reasonable-length lunch breaks, paying attention to individual students and letting their students fulfill their requirements, wouldn’t be such a big deal. But these are ridiculous ideas because it’s not like the deans of students being paid to help the students. Oh, they are?

The Quinn Library

I owe the library like $700. I haven’t been able to take movies out in three years and they just recently took away my ability to check books out. Books! What else will I light my celebratory graduation bonfires with? Granted, I have a hard time with deadlines. Like I always say, rules were made to be broken, I’m a rebel without a cause, Chili’s baby back ribs – general bad-ass stuff. So sometimes I’m late with a movie! Fine, slap a ridiculously high fine on each day it’s late and revoke my rights to watch four straight days of “Pride and Prejudice.” But I never would have sold those library books on the black market if I’d known that they charge you $75 for a lost book fee or that I won’t be able to borrow books in order to pass those classes that I’m already paying $40,000/year for. After all, I had no idea those lost books were worth so much money—even stuffed with a pound of pure Colombian heroin, I only got $4.17 each.

“School Spirit”

I know your secret people in the Residence Hall Association, in the United Student Government, on the GO! board, on the Observer board, all the leaders of student clubs. Those activities sure look good on that graduate school application, don’t they? Face it, being “involved” at this campus is defined as “Involved—adj. 1. The act of annoying everyone with stupid USG campaign information. 2. Killing trees to make flyers that no one will read. 3. Avoiding getting a real job or internship.” I’ve never lied about my involvement with any sort of student group: I need bylines, it looks good on my resume, my mom made me do it, it pisses administration off, etc. But come on, all you people with “school spirit,” you have to realize that you’re all lying to yourselves and the general population if you think that what you’re doing at Fordham is actually accomplishing anything. If we lived in, say, Wisconsin, and the only options for my Thursday night were to harass cows or to attend a Rainbow Alliance-sponsored movie event, I would actually consider going to the movie event before grabbing my poking stick and heading out the door. In conclusion: NYC > Fordham student activities.

So good riddance, Fordham University. I will miss the terrible cafeteria food. I will miss those freshmen who take the elevator down from the third floor to the second. I will miss Leslie’s fire alarm voice, that dead-on-the-inside monotony that sinks me into a stupor faster than any carbon monoxide could. I’ll even miss the way nicotine chokes the air on the plaza and how the pompous visual arts kids strut around the school, vainly attempting to hide their massive egos behind their false, self-deprecating-hipster façade.

Oh, and because this is the end of my Fordham career and I give a rat’s ass about offending people, I have one last thing to say.

When our eyes locked that night, across the hash browns dish at Midnight Breakfast, I felt a white hot surge in my veins. The milky cereal in my bowl was cold, but my heart and my soul were burning. My ears were filled with the sound of the ocean, the sweet birdsong of early morning, the howl of a wild wolf. I knew you felt the chemistry between us, you big, strong man of God. One day, when you tire of the chaste life, shuck off that cassock, and become “Mr. McShane” instead of “Father,” call me.