If you’re anything like me— of Polish descent— you’ve become a bit depressed recently with the dearth of parties, ragers, jump-offs, and box socials on campus. A dark cloud of chagrin and depression has settled over this campus in recent weeks, with students looking emaciated, distraught, and on the verge of an emotional breakdown. This means one of two things: it’s either thesis time, or someone changed the name of this school to Vassar. Zinger!

With the onslaught of theses taking a serious toll on the number of seniors throwing beer-fueled bacchanals over the last few weeks, the number of uninhibited upperclassmen has dropped as well. And while we could all wait for the annual senior week syndrome of “Oh my God, I’m graduating! I only have a few more days to sleep with an eighteen-year-old without having to register as a sex offender afterwards!”-itis, who has that kind of patience? Douchebags, that’s who. Are you a douchebag? Because if you are, put down this newspaper and go clean a vagina. Anyways, to all those who aren’t, as the French would say, “a shower bag,” I present to you a detailed guide of how to create the illusion of your own thesis immersion, in an effort to snag that elusive thesis-stricken senior (or, for the lazy and/or illiterate, just buy a tranquilizer gun).

First off, don’t shower/change your clothes/brush your teeth/breathe for about three weeks. That last one might be a little tricky, but sometimes super-cool seniors are so committed to their theses that they forget to inhale oxygen. You probably don’t know this, but thesis carrels are actually just coffins standing upright. Haha, just kidding! No, but seriously, theses kill about 47 seniors per year. Additionally, the more you look like an insane homeless person suffering from Ebola, the better your thesis is. The Great Gastroenteritis Epidemic was actually started by senior Dave Minkoff ’06, whose thesis was so good that he shit in his mouth.

If you’re doing a thesis, you can get away with anything. And I mean NOTHING. I mean… ANYTHING. Example: “Hey Tonya, didn’t see you at our third anniversary dinner last night at Tavern on the Green. I dunno, I just kinda thought you’d maybe come, what with it being, ya know, our third anniversary.” “Yeah, I was watching the Flavor of Love Reunion Special on VH1 from eight to nine o’clo… [awkward pause] I mean doing my thesis on surrealism in 17th century Taiwan.” “Stop right there madam; I am a twit! Here’s twenty dollars.” See? So the crazier shit you say you got out of/did because you were writing a thesis, the more chicks you’ll bang, i.e., “Remember the Great Chicago Fire? That wasn’t that lady’s cow; that was my thesis,” or “How good was that song ‘Boom Boom Boom Boom (I Want You in my Room)?’ All this guy’s thesis.” When you say “thesis,” point to your crotch. Or, if crotch access is blocked, gesture towards that giant crane/200 foot phallic symbol next to the new campus center.

Give the object of your desire a copy of that weird-ass movie Max Goldblatt made about some gay dude and a kaleidoscope and tell them it’s your thesis. Shit will be on like Donkey Kong in seconds.