Senator Barack Obama spoke at graduation this year. I know this because I was there, and I have the camera phone picture to prove it. Or perhaps that is a picture of my rash to show my doctor. Regardless, he was the voice of the class of 2006; the voice of my four years; the voice of the end. This is the point where Sen. Obama leans over, nudges me and whispers, Dude, it’s actually called ‘commencement.’

Commencement.

If my SAT class taught me anything besides the awe-inspiring, If you can eliminate a choice, do that, it’s that commencement means beginning (from the Latin roots, ‘com’, meaning first and ‘mencement,’ meaning some sort of meat).

But beginning of what? Paying insurance? Water coolers? Getting up hours before I used to get home?

Let’s face it. This isn’t a beginning, it’s a death sentence: Here is your degree in art history which should adequately prepare you for the real world. Now go get ’em Tiger.

I’m prepared for a two-story beer bong. I’m prepared to elude hotel security. I’m prepared to dress ’80’s at a moment’s notice. I am not prepared to consolidate my loans or do anything from 9 to 5 that isn’t part of Gameday.

I am not saying Northwestern does a poor job of preparing us for the real world, because nothing prepares us for the real world (with the possible exception of MTV’s The Real World). The real world is a cold, heartless bitch (much like Tanya of MTV’s The Real World).

College is blind bliss. Your meals are placed under sneeze guards by people more accommodating than your mother (albeit less friendly and hairier). Your most challenging household endeavor is a tie between figuring out the difference between permanent press and cotton, and attempting to organize your dorm room in such a way that 30-plus people can fit inside for your Tuesday Boozeday party.

If you come home from a long day and want to do nothing more than curl up with a good book, odds are it’s 4 a.m. and that book is your physics textbook, with a problem set due in six hours.

But just as nature’s care nurtures a precious chickadee until full bloom, moments later kicking that young bastard straight out of the nest from 30 feet up whispering, fly on its plummet to the sharp twigs and cold granite below, so too must we be flung from our nest of Busch Light and TiVo onto the sharp twigs of dental plans and the cold granite of income tax. The only advice whispered to us is, balance your checkbook. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Yes, it is a harsh world out there, young chickadees, and if you know what’s good for you, you will take a moment to enjoy the nest. You only get the nest for four years, and whichever convoluted metaphor I used for the real world, you are stuck with it for the rest of your life.