Spotted: Miss Robyn Urback snaps a shot of herself in the midst of the inevitable aftermath of that champagne toast we gave the other day.

Post grad we're quickly realizing j-school fools have two options: marry rich or die young.

Our era ends

Sneakers, a bowtie, and black polka dots under a shining smoking jacket, I grinned like the boyfriend the Betsey girls didn’t have back in high school. Prom night. Time for sloppy wet kisses, screaming sentimental secrets, and dance floor anthems we’ll never forget the words to.

It was the last dance. We threw it ourselves, knowing our school is not the type for banquets or balls, homecoming or black-tie affairs. We rented out a bar. J-Prom, Carly called it, as she handed out little red tickets during our last days of lecture hall.

We cabbed west on College, finding a tiny bar filled with familiar faces, ribbons and balloons. Knowing we wouldn’t be all together like this again until convocation, if ever, we bought each other drinks, toasted to semesters past, then to moment; finally the future.

We chose our most likely to: become a CBCelebrity, take down the man, and teach our kids when they go to college years from now. (For medicine or law, we hope, anything but what we did.)

The DJ spun a few last classics always requested at prom, and we filled the floor, wrapping our arms around each other, and spitting out the lyrics.

So we crooned: A singer in a smoky room, a smell of wine and cheap perfume. For a smile they can share the night. It goes on and on and on and on…

And we held on to that feeling.

It’s all about to pop

Four years ends right here. With the pop of a bottle we raised a glass of street-side bubbly to all those endless classes and one final exam. We shrugged off all those a, b, and all of the aboves: gave hugs, high-fives, and smiles.

We did it. The final features have been pumped onto the web and printed out on glossy magazine pages. Documentaries have been cut and screened. Our CVs are stocked, jobs have been won or lost; new plans made to replace our school days.

With that it was off the pub for pitchers of beer, time to get hazy and say all those things we’d been meaning to mention over a semester spent grunting hellos and rushing off to finish what we started.

As we looked around the patio the faces we saw weren’t the ones we’d heard about back home when we announced we’d be heading off to journalism school. Not competitive bastards inching their way to top the media ladder. Instead we’d found shoulders to lean on, friends to act as editors: people we needed.

And when I got home I found two I’d leaned on all semester. One fast asleep in my bed, another using my scanner, both glad I’d returned. Though we’ll soon walk in different directions, I promise to them: I’ll always return.

See you bastards tonight at prom.

Classic clothes, fresh faces

On the eve of the last first day of our early academic careers we drank to the death of school days. Dressed dapper like Mr. Draper we caught up on a summer spent apart and swapped schedules to see who would be available for pre-class coffee runs.

The news was mostly good: flights back from world travels landed safely, 40 hour work-weeks provided bank balances reminiscent of pre-OSAP days, and internships are securely in place for fall.

Still convinced entering an empty job market is reason enough to celebrate, we brought out dessert and said to the naysayers: let them eat cake. And at the last minute I stuck a special sparkler into the icing in the shape of an eight.

Eight months to go, eight months to go.

Welcome back, Ryerson.

Making Mr. Draper proud

Black, white, and read all-over?

Cardiganed, pearled, and pencil-skirted to perfection