It’s true. While I was in Oakland this past week, my stepfather delivered to me a piece of mail that had been sitting around for a few weeks. He thought it was my college transcripts, so I was in no big hurry to receive them. Lo and behold—my diploma from UC Berkeley! It confers upon me the title of Bachelor of Arts. (And I think to myself, ah, freewheeling bachelorhood: no commitment, no strings. The days when art was my mistress.)
Sure, the date says “May 2010,” instead of “December 2000” as it should, but it’s been ten years—it’s like being carded now at a bar. So long as they give me a drink, I don’t care what the ID says.
Damn, I’ve earned this fucker.