Don’t worry, readers, today’s “Complaint Depart­ment” has nothing to do with Michael Jackson. No, it has to do with the end of a different sort of era. Today marks my final formal contribution to The Sun. I graduate one month from today, and God only knows what will become of me. What I do know, however, is that I plan to spend the next six months in Ithaca rocking out as hard as humanly possible.

More than something to pass the time or lengthen my resume, I’ve written because, well, what better way than to speak your mind than by making fun of everyone? Who knows — maybe it’ll even get me a job one day. (This one’s for you, future boss sir or lady reading my writing sample. Pick me!)

As I write this, though, I can’t help but think of what is to come for us seniors, and of our fair (if dated) friend, the Magic 8 ball. Answers like “Reply hazy, try again later” and “Don’t count on it” actually characterize quite aptly our current chances at employment.

Don’t believe me? The Huffington Post seems to agree: “At No Time In Post-World War II America Has It Been More Difficult To Find a Job,” reads the Nov. 9, 2009 homepage headline. The New York Times asks today, “Did Unemployment Really Rise?” Sucks to be us.

Despite a severe case of senioritis preventing me from even reading the entirety of these articles, I’m pretty positive we’re doomed. Having hit the highest unemployment rate since ’83, our country is not going to be very nice to college graduates this year. Considering that I plan to sell neither drugs nor my body in the next five years, it looks like I’m out of luck. I wonder if I still have those socks I bedazzled and sold in the fourth grade …

Though the job search is something I plan to inevitably figure out, finishing up the semester is a bigger concern. For, I don’t yet truly believe that I’m old enough to enter the real world. My friends certainly don’t seem old enough. Even the people who graduated last year aren’t old enough.

For the moment, however, making it to class is my main apprehension. Not only are my 11:40s increasingly difficult to get to, but I’ve also racked up some three Susan “NO-SHOWS” to date. Is it really necessary to write it in caps like that? Sheesh. Worst of all, I’ve successfully discovered the section of Mann with the most frat boys per capita. (I would.)

Apart from my deteriorating academics, I’ve managed to average more drunk than sober nights per week. In my mind, at least, group therapy is no longer a collaborative form of rehabilitation, and a fishbowl has nothing to do with aquatic life.

Despite my post-graduation anxieties and an undiagnosed case of alcoholism, when I look back on my years here, I find that something about being a senior that feels so right. Maybe I’ve done what I came here to do.

After all, not only do I own Ithaca is Gorges, Cold and Gangsta t-shirts, but I’ve gone on more wine tours than I can count. I’ve dim sum brunched at RPU and people-watched at Terrace. I’ve gone to two Harvard hockey games, have never camped out and instead paid a total of $9 for my tickets. I’ve attended the Ithaca beer, apple and chili festivals and I’ve certainly walk-of-shamed. I’ve studied in Rome. I’ve gone out on a Monday. I’ve eaten more pizza after midnight than I’ve ever ordered sober. I’ve used a fake ID, and gotten one taken away. I’ve blacked out at Kyushu. I’ve jumped into the gorges and sunbathed at the plantations. I’ve gotten parking tickets, I’ve appealed parking tickets. I’ve taken both Wines and Psych 101. I’ve driven to formal in Canada and bursared beer at the Statler. I’ve spent too much at Wegmans and ended nights at Bear Nasties.

I’ve done things I can’t remember, and made memories I’ll never forget. Hell, I’ve been to Kuma Charmers!

Point is, as a graduating senior, we’ve got but six months. Game plan? To do it all over again … and then some.