A funny thing happened on the way to the Forum Building.

It took place just last October, in the middle of one of college football's best comeback stories, as Joe Paterno was on his way to leading our resurgent Nittany Lions to a 11 and one-second season.

As the rest of the world was falling in love with JoePa once again, I was getting run over by him.

Well, almost.

I was just crossing the intersection of Shortlidge and Curtin roads when I heard the unmistakable screech of slammed brakes. And an exasperated honk. And some yelling.

As those who know me will attest, I was not blessed with the common-sense gene. I tend to cross streets without thinking. Or without looking. So just to clarify, the near-collision was most definitely my fault.

It was when I looked up to see which car I had almost put a nice dent in that I saw some familiar coke-bottle glasses. And even though I could not see his rolled-up black pants and signature white socks, there was no doubt.

That's right. I was this close to being run over by Joe Paterno.

Having survived my faux near-death experience, I had only one thought: what better way was there to go?

I was, quite literally, born a Nittany Lion fan. My parents met at Penn State. One of my earliest memories (and I swear this is the truth and not some glorified, fictionalized rewriting of history) is my parents' frantic pacing during a nail-biter between Penn State and Notre Dame in the early '90s.

So with blue and white in my blood from birth, I figured this would be a fitting end.

So why do I feel compelled to share my not-so-harrowing tale? Well, for one, every Penn State student should have at least one Joe Paterno sighting in his or her four years on campus. This was mine, and I'm proud to say if nothing else, it was unique.

But if there's one thing I will take away from my time at Penn State, it is this: Four years of college will fly by quickly, so be sure to leave with some great stories to tell.

In one of my favorite books, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, the narrator looks at pictures of his parents' youth. They looked happy -- they looked like they were having the kind of fun that you can only experience when you're young and still pleasantly stupid.

When looking at the pictures, he says to the readers: "I just hope I remember to tell my kids that they are as happy as I look in my old photographs. And I hope they believe me."

I always used to look at my parents photo albums from college in some sort of mixture of awe and confusion. There was my mom, walking on her way to class in Willard Building, like I do now. There was my dad, decked out in his Penn State garb, standing in (a much smaller) Beaver Stadium, just like I do now. They made it look like so much fun.

And now, with my own college career wrapping up, I look at my own photo albums that I have amassed throughout my four years and realize I had that much fun too.

I tell you all this because you only have four years to have experiences that will make some really good stories. Of course, you know this. But you don't really know this.

Four years seems like a long time. Everyone will tell you it goes by quickly, and you will believe them. But one day soon you will turn around and be a senior and think the same thing: When and how did that happen?

Take it from someone who knows. I spent more time in Paterno Library than should be legal. I stayed in on way too many weekend nights to study, and I have the grades to show for it.

I still have a lot of good stories, but I wish I had even more.

I don't have a lot of pearls of wisdom, but I do have this: Try your best to leave this place with a lot of good stories...

Remember when we woke up at 5 a.m. just for the chance to buy Orange Bowl tickets? (I did that.)

Remember when we got in line at 6 a.m. to celebrate St. Patty's day at the Phyrst? (OK, I never did that.)

Don't sweat the small stuff. But remember and treasure every bit of it.

And I hope one day you too will have a funny thing happen on the way to the Forum Building.