A Heartfelt Farewell from the paper’s Beloved Blackout Barbie

We’d say we’ll miss you, but we don’t actually care

By Blackout Barbie
Staff Barbie

All good things like a long bender must eventually come to an end. Mostly just because the human liver can only endure so much before you find yourself vomiting in the road like a common peasant. My career here at the paper has been a long primarily alcohol-fueled venture into the darkest dregs of human existence, colloquially referred to as the 3:00 AMMugz crowd. Ernest Hemingway once said something about writing and drinking, and I think that’s pretty cool because he wrote some pretty famous books. I have never read any of these said books, not because I drink too much to read, but because his treatment of women is about as quality as a thirty of Busch. The paper staff insists that outside of my absolute devotion to the feminist cause I am however basically shitty Hemingway.

Writing for the paper has been an interesting experience as it is literally the only thing I have and probably ever will contribute to productive society on the whole. When I arrived on the scene freshmen year, I was slightly buzzed and needed the idea that it was simply called “the paper” explained to me a reported 34 times. I considered this a marked improvement from my initial interaction with The Ram who rejected my first attempt to attend a meeting by stating that I smelled like “a bar and shame” before a surprisingly large student journalist dragged me from the premises. Since then the paper has allowed me to churn out what most of my critics have referred to as “garbage passing as a remote semblance of literacy.” Personally, I believe that I am a substantially better writer than current Editor-In-Chief Michael Jack O’Brien or is it the other one who is in charge? Christ I can never tell. They’re both the light beer of humanity; weak and more widely available than anyone could have ever wanted. I once I had a dream where I won a Pulitzer, granted said dream was cut short by the realization that I had soaked my sheets in urine, but I challenge Generic White Male EIC to aspire to anything great than that.

I would like to say that I am looking forward to graduating with the rest of my peers, but the truth is that I am actually just packing up my room in Walsh because I’ve been expelled. I pride myself on having been documented for an “inconceivable number of alcohol policy violations.” As the son of a wealthy oil baron and the heiress to the Heineken fortune, I was given far more leeway than the rest of you peasants could ever hope for here at Fordham. And yet I still managed to get expelled because I will never surrender. Did I tap a keg in Father McShane’s office? We’ll never know because I signed a pretty strongly worded NDA in order to stay at this school. Did I once shotgun a four loko before falling off the high dive during a regular season NCAA swim meet? Again we’ll never know because according to my Dad’s Attorney, an NDA is super legally binding. To be honest though the guy’s a Mormon and can’t drink cause of “beliefs,” so I don’t really trust anything he says.

I’ll be fine though. First, cause again I’m just inordinately wealthy. Second, if the paper has taught me anything, it is that I should always have a backup plan. Say for instance your article is rejected because you were on a bender and the staff thinks you should “think about where you are in life,” you just publish it on the odyssey online. Now that I’ve been expelled, I’m just going to ask my dad or mom for a job. I’ll make six figures for doing nothing and never have to address my glaring personal issues. I’m living the alcohol infused dream guys. Honestly, I probably won’t even miss Fordham, mostly because the vast majority of my memories here are hazy at best. Outside of NSO and that week I tried going gluten free, most things are seen behind a pretty thick fog of intoxication. Maybe I’ll miss that fucking ram statue. I’ve ridden it every weekend for the last three semesters according to recent court documents. Apparently, a court can file a restraining order on behalf of an animal sculpture. I think. I had a Starbucks cup full of Maker’s Mark for the entirety of the proceedings. Well, I guess this is my final farewell Fordham unless my father buys the naming rights to South, which he can like super easily to do because he is a wealthy oil baron, and the rules don’t apply to rich people. I solve all my problem with my Father’s credit card and alcohol and there is nothing anyone can do to change who I am.

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