Sex! Money!

Unless your name is Stanley Hudson, I should have gotten your attention with that first word. But just in case, I included a backup.

Anyway, it’s wild that I’m writing this. It’s wild I’m graduating in a few days. It’s wild I’m about to embark on a new chapter in my life. I told myself countless times my sophomore and junior years I wouldn’t make my senior column a sappy one, but alas, here we go. I’ll probably look back on this in a few years and be grossed out at myself anyway, so I may as well be genuine.

I never planned on journalism. I didn’t. I wanted to enter the medical field because my dad did, and as a self-respecting 14-year-old, I wanted to follow in Pop’s footsteps. But I took an anatomy class sophomore year, and I’m glad I did, because I absolutely detested it. The same year, I took a class called 21st Century Journalism, which eventually landed me on this staff. And in that weird year when I fused a class I hated with one the potential of which I was only beginning to grasp, I unearthed my calling.

Along the way, I collected a myriad of memories. I will struggle to forget the Monday work-nights I spent keeled over in the journalism room laughing at nothing in particular; the evenings I spent as a sophomore frustrated by how a picture wouldn’t fit the way I needed; even the fifth-hour class periods when I felt alone, hollow, desolate and godforsaken inside, talking and smiling but not feeling an ounce of it.

My emotions have been stretched as far as the east is from the west by the journalism program and its many responsibilities, but the good news is that I made friends more than willing to accommodate them. I’ve made friends who are sacrificial and compassionate; friends who have refused to let me be alone when my selfish desires drove me to dwell on my overwhelming heartache and remorse. It’s reassuring to know they aren’t going anywhere.

But by the same token, I’ve met friends both in and out of the journalism room who don’t fit that bill. I’ve made friends who are self-centered, toxic, fake and evasive; unwilling to make sacrifices that serve as the basis of any healthy relationship.

The problem is that for a long time, I couldn’t tell the difference.

I learned the hard way that some people, as charming, witty and enjoyable as they may appear, are not worth keeping around. Some people — not friends — may be there for you, but a second thought gives them cold feet. I learned via life’s greatest teacher, experience, and through its second-greatest: Mrs. Nyp.

I’ve gotten to know a Mentor or two (this wouldn’t be a column of mine without a good pun) in the tempestuous ride that is growing up, but Mrs. Nyp has, does and will continue to stick out in my mind. She is an excellent adviser and teacher, of course, but more importantly, a steady presence in my life. It is not every day I am able to meet a teacher as invested in both my success and happiness as she. It’s through Mrs. Nyp that I’ve come to grips with many an agonizing lesson, been bent into shape, voiced internal reflections I never imagined telling another soul and realized comfort. I would say thank you, but that would only make an infinitesimal dent in my efforts to articulate how much I appreciate her.

As remarkable as she is, however, she can’t be there for everyone. So find someone, preferably several people, who are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, genuine. Don’t waste your priceless four high school years chasing friends who you have doubts about, because I speak from experience when I say your happiness trumps the inevitable feeling of sinking regret when they hurt you over and over again. It is far from worth it.

I’ve encountered friends both inside and outside The Mentor who are worth it, and it’s an unbelievably freeing feeling to be close with people who you are confident care about you. Invest in those people, because they will make all the difference.