I have to admit, if somebody had told me a year ago that I would be running themed issues of the MUSE two months into my term as Arts & Entertainment editor at The Daily Free Press, I’d have laughed in their face-ridiculous, lame, cheesy, reminiscent of a high school newspaper, even . . . not my style. Upon entering my freshman year at Boston University, I discovered a dingy little hole-in-the-wall office wedged between a pizza place, whose free WiFi I’d come to steal on a nightly basis, and a brand of ATM I had never and still have never heard of. The place was disgusting, deplorable and probably worth condemnation. It was filthy ‘-‘- littered with a variety of empty to-go boxes and beer bottles. Outdated, useless and archaic computer monitors were piled in every possible corner. Couches with ripped upholstery, chairs with three legs, vending machines from before I was born and wires being held down by pathetic scraps of masking tape everywhere. The icing on the cake? A tally of ‘Offensive Remarks’ that paid tribute to those who had come before and graffiti lined-walls to offend the eyes beyond what the ears were already hearing. And this was just the downstairs . . . front room. Was this seriously 842 Commonwealth Avenue? Did I stumble upon a mythical co-ed frat house or did I have the wrong address? My R.A. and a floor mate had informed me that this was where I needed to be if I wanted to write. How could I have offended someone so much that three weeks into my freshman year I was already the subject of a nasty trick? Did the wheelchair ramp I worked on during FYSOP suddenly collapse, sending its users into a fit of rage causing them to now have some sort of vendetta against me? Was my roommate already plotting ways to get me lost in Boston so she could have the room to herself? Was this the Twilight Zone? Nope, this was the FreeP, or The Daily Free Press; one of Boston’s most widely read and well-respected newspapers, Boston University’s independent, student-run newspaper and subsequently, my life for the next four years . . . though, if someone had told me that then, I’d have laughed in their face. I wanted to learn the practice of journalism outside the classroom. I wanted to be a respected college reporter, a serious journalist, a writer. How the hell were these baboons going to teach me anything? Fast forward to today, three-and-a-half years later, and I’m still here, still learning. Despite what the mess of papers and empty Diet Coke cans around me might lead you to believe, I am a respected college reporter, a serious journalist, a writer (either that, or I have fooled both Sarah Silverman and Lauren Conrad into chatting with me for no reason, everyone at LiveNation for hooking my friends up with the hottest concert tickets in town, countless PR biddies, Lindsay Lohan and Sam Ronson for inviting me to a party and even YOU for reading this). I’ve learned more outside of the classroom than I ever possibly could have within it, and made some of the best friends I have ever had while doing it. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, given the chance, some things can be great. This place has offered me a world of opportunity my peers could only dream of. Sure, what I’m editing here is not The New York Times, and yes, sometimes when my parents ask about the miniature number of bylines I have been able to produce this semester I have to remind them, this whole paper is my work, my writing, editing, fact checking . . . my baby, but it’s well worth it. So, say what you want. Tweet that the FreeP is biased, laugh when we have redundant headlines, criticize our sloppy use of proper grammar and be skeptical all you want. Just make sure you keep reading, because you can’t be the first to point out our mistakes when you’re the last to grab a copy. Now, tell me who has the last laugh? ‘-‘- Christine Cassis, executive editor, signing off with her last FreeP byline ever, as she tackles being the co-editor of the Opinion Page next semester.