Hi. I’m Peter. And I’m a fifth-year senior.
I know! I know I shouldn’t admit it. It’s like admitting you have herpes on the first date, or that you secretly like the banana-and-cheese crepes at Cafe Siena. But it’s true. I love those crepes.
And I wear that scarlet number — a big “5” — around my neck.

But it’s not so bad being a fifth-year. There are more of us than you think. When the revolution begins, we will be right at the front of the pack, throwing bottles and rocks. Ha ha. Just kidding.
There aren’t any statistics yet for my entering class, but in the entering class of 1996, more than 600 students continued into a fifth year (and that means fall of the fifth year, not summer). That’s 24.9 percent of the class.
Of that 600, 175 students entered Van Wilder-land and continued into a sixth year. Eesh.
So, we have strength in numbers. Plus we’re, like, really, umm, experienced in the ways of the world and stuff. And we’re wise beyond your years. And we don’t need directions to Deady Hall any more.
We’d prefer if you didn’t call us “super” seniors, because it reminds us too much of Comedy Central’s “Special” Ed.
I wanna stay in school into my 30s. Yaaaaaay!
But we don’t mind if you call us “scintillating” seniors. Or “spectacular” seniors. Or “all-powerful, all-knowing, all-sexy” seniors. Any of those would work.
So I guess there are one or two drawbacks to being a sensational senior. I only list these to present both sides of the story, in the name of journalistic ethics (note to journalism professors: This should earn me an automatic “A” in all journalism classes this year!).
Certain situations make us fifth-years feel older than Hugh Hefner. Only with fewer hot women. Like when we’re forced to take entry-level astronomy classes for the science credit we never got freshman year. Or when we go to parties at the Commons, and somebody screams “The cops are coming!” and everybody clears out except the fifth-years. And we sit around, sipping beer and nodding at each other.
Then there’re the questions.
“What are you still doing here?”
“Haven’t you graduated yet?”
“Do you really have herpes?”
Just kidding about the last one. But the questions need to stop. I’m like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. I don’t caaaaare. I should just wear a T-shirt that says “Fifth year. Don’t ask.” I think they should sell those at the bookstore.
Who wants to leave school anyway? The world is a scary place. Just ask any graduate trying to find work in this occupational wasteland we call Oregon. George W. Bush couldn’t find work in this state.
So you’ve been president for what, four years? Sorry, we’re looking for somebody with a little more experience. Jenny, show Mr. Clinton in.
The real world includes mortgages and marriage and tricycles. I’ll just spend most of this year in a tent outside Allen Hall, in protest of the fact that I’ll have to someday leave the University.
So, everybody, welcome to another school year. I promise you won’t read a column next year glorifying the plight of sixth-year seniors.
And remember, we’re not super.
We’re scintillating.