I used to hate people who were late.

Freshman year, I was a bitter old man about it.

Sitting in my first class at Penn State, I would glare toward the opening door of whatever random Forum classroom I was in after the professor would begin talking. At least half a dozen students would stumble in 10, 15, 20 minutes late.

One girl in particular would come in once a week, at best, like clockwork -- consistently 15 minutes behind the beginning of lecture.

And my blood would boil.

I was, and still am, one of those students leaning heavily on loans and less-than-ideal summer jobs to get through college. Being raised with a more pronounced blue collar than was probably good for me, I thought I appreciated money more than those spoiled little brats who had no concept of the thousands of dollars they were wasting by not coming to class.

Or who disrespected professors by stumbling in sleepy-eyed, pajama-clad -- and did I mention late?

I felt better than everyone else there because I was always in the room, taking notes, paying attention -- hangovers from alcoholism learned in my small-town upbringing aside from the paying attention part -- and generally doing what I was "supposed" to be doing at college.

If you don't show up for a job, you get fired. And that's what these four years of my life were supposed to be: a job to get me a job, and nothing more.

Fast-forward four years.

Many of my friends, now looking back from the perspective of senior year, look at freshman year as a time they should have clamped down more so the old GPA was just a little bit higher.

So that being said, I'm sure I'm the biggest idiot on campus, because I wish mine were lower. Either I'm an idiot for thinking that, or for not realizing earlier that my tuition isn't buying classes, or a diploma; it's buying four years of the college experience.

Throughout my experience, the best things my money has gone to don't include classes.

They are the skipped study time for finals last spring when my friends who were graduating and I decided to shut down the Rathskeller together because we all knew it was the last time we'd all be in the same room again.

They are missed 8 a.m. classes -- sometimes turned late-drops -- because of staying up with friends until the early weekday mornings doing who knows what.

And they are the hours spent in the Collegian office instead of in a classroom, covering news stories like there's no tomorrow.

Because for times like these, there isn't, and I learned that far too late. Most of my tuition-bought time was spent in classrooms covering material I can't even remember with nameless faces I'll never know.

All because of a chip on my shoulder, the need to feel better than everyone else.

Now I'm tired of feeling like I need to be an overachiever just to be an achiever at all. I don't need to be a hard-ass to make this time worthwhile. In fact, it was those days that aren't worthwhile in hindsight.

I can hear the collective gasp of the academic community out there as I say that, but one of my greatest regrets in my college career is that I didn't just roll over and hit that snooze more; that I didn't stay up later during freshman and sophomore year because I was worried about classes.

Classes are overrated. I should have skipped more. A lot more. And unfortunately, I'll never know what I missed.

So as my final semester routine settles in for the long haul, I've decided that I'll skip more classes and spend my hard-earned time elsewhere -- wherever that may be.

Even if it is just sitting up until 4 a.m. discussing the meaning of life with the closest friends I've ever had -- including that damn girl who was always late freshman year.