Collegian-ites call me "Blaubot."

The persona stuck after a football game, as a face-breaking tackle would put titanium into my left cheek. After a walk to the sideline and swigs of water, Blaubot only wanted hit some more.

Blaubot feels no pain. With such an expressionless grin, Blaubot seemingly couldn't feel anything.

But while it would be easy to keep this stone face, holding tight to this legacy of office linebacker as graduation's escape creeps closer, I would be remiss to not call my own bluff.

Blaubot doesn't rule supreme.

Not when speaking above a mumble in front of a crowd causes my voice to whither, as my heart tries to leap out my chest. Not when my precision at this newspaper has been anything but machine-like.

Thank you, Collegian, for giving me these pages to dirty with sub-par type, this column included. I also have to apologize to the athletes who were subjected to my poor analysis and Bruce Willis references.

How'd I pull off this Blaubot swindle anyway? Especially when my finger paused over the cell phone's "send" button before calling another attorney about Rene Portland.

Even wilder, the kid who almost won a farcical high school vote for "Most Talkative" will con Penn State's college of communications out of a degree in a couple weeks.

It just doesn't jive, how the plumber's son only uses "tool" to describe people. It's like when my mom, the Pre-K teacher, made me a summer camp counselor, yet my competitiveness doomed "Mr. Jon" to unmercifully conquer the UNO table.

Blaubot pushed swings? Yeah, and I practically hurled those kids.

I have felt no less out of place at the Collegian. I tried to become a "player." I have never set goals so high or worked so hard until last semester, spending it on the sidelines in a blue, plastic fold-up chair just hanging out. I'm not the chosen editor, the award-winner, the football writer. I just live here.

I am still deficient in office politics. My passion for networking, idolizing, or befriending older writers is still waning. Moreover, I had trouble asking coach for practice off on Yom Kippur, so you want me to wait next to an 81 year old's car to ask him about a memo? That's journalism, I guess.

I am going to need more time to morph, more than these four years allowed, because I'm still learning to give a hug more naturally than a body slam. A wife and some hella-cute children can come later, I hope.

First, I just want to find comfort in calling attention to myself, saying "goodbye" on my way out the door.

But dropping you off, Blaubot, that will be easier than arriving at Penn State and trying to quit the whole quiet kid act. It'll be simpler than when my teammates gathered around the 100-something-pound high school freshman called "the ant" in the high school weight room, as I deadlifted 400-plus pounds.

Silently, I pulled my power from leftover rage connected to eight prior years of being bullied.

You didn't just appear, Blaubot, as this oft-unresponsive shell formed during years of self-imposed solitude. I recognize your right to exist, but I pray these last few years shook you.

Hopefully, someday, in a world without Blaubot, I'll be able to trust more people. Maybe I'll be able to forgive those who didn't quite offer kind words. For now, I at least have my sports staff, the first and largest group of individuals to hear me project above a whisper.

Just know, when I walk out the door, Blaubot isn't coming with me.

Jon Blau is a senior majoring in journalism and -- until 6:15 a.m. today -- the Collegian's assistant sports editor. His e-mail address is jsb5000@psu.edu.