An Open Letter to College Students

Dear College Students (under the age of 25, or those lacking maturity thereof):

For most of you, I know I am a decade or more your senior, which in your book makes me near-ancient, uncool, and seemingly (truly) grumpy in comparison. My background and disposition admitted, it should come as no surprise that you all annoy me and had I knowledge of black magic, I would make you all turnips or sew your mouths shut or dismember your thumbs. Yeah, something like that.

Granted, had I finished college in a more timely manner I would be not in a situation wherein I am constantly aggravated, annoyed and enraged by your behavior. Instead, I would only have to face that at the workplace, where admittedly it only gets a little better and trangressions are more covert and if not, I am paid a sum of money per hour at the very least. Instead, I have to bear your company AND pay for it. I'm actually grateful that I'm an older college student. Nothing seems challenging, it's all seemingly remedial and when I actually learn something new, it's gratifying and interesting. I don't take it for granted. I don't have to be taught what the "real-world" is like or "real-world" applications, I already live in it. When I get my college degree, I will already have 10+ years of experience on top that over-priced piece of paper. I promise you that your college degree at 22 won't match my college degree at...(ahem) my more advanced age. So suck it.

I digress.

Truly, youth is wasted on the young. Instead of being eager, young minds hungry for knowledge, you're dim-witted tweeters, resting your damn cell phones on your lap as if no one notices you're not paying attention. You're dumb. I notice. If you have somewhere better to be, go there. Otherwise, I promise that no one really cares about your facebook statuses. You will survive without your phone for an hour and fifteen minutes. Yes, your significant other is probably cheating on you--you don't need a text to confirm it. No, I don't find your Justin Bieber backpack amusing or ironic, I find it vacuous just like that space between your ears. You look absurd with your full-face of makeup paired with sweat pants and Uggs or your skinny-yet-sagging jeans. You disgust me.

Working with you in groups is like babysitting baboons. But then again, even baboons are productive; they pick lice off of each other's heads. You barely can keep your head off the desk or stare vacantly into space. Comparing answers doesn't mean you copy my answers onto your blank sheet. Discussions aren't composed of "Umm...". I'm not the professor, if you don't get it, I'm not explaining it to you. I don't relate to you about how lame school is or how you couldn't get the homework done because you drank too much. Rookie.

Let me paint your a picture: Imagine yourself ten years from now. You're "old" (read: my age). You work in a non-descript office, doing menial work for an insignificant wage. You're either miserable or (still) terribly stupid. "How did I end up here?" you ask yourself, "I majored in business! I'm a college graduate!" Alas, you're still an idiot. And always will be.

Do yourself a favor and take advantage of the opportunity to learn something (anything) while you're in class or do me a favor and piss off.

Resentfully yours,