I wandered into the office of the Ubyssey last week, enticed by promises of free snacks. Before I had time to get my bearings, I'd been coerced into drawing an editorial cartoon. I explained that my efforts would never produce something on par with one of the masters of the genre, but staff members - a hardy race of dwarves who dwell in the subterranean bowels of the Student Union Building - assured me that they had the lowest expectations. Literally any two-dimensional figure would do. No Ubysseyan is capable of holding a pencil, their hands having grown knotty and crabbed over years of typing editorials and forging blades of legendary power. Thus the need, occasionally, to steal away mortals from the Realm of Men. I was ready to bolt for the door, until I learned that my labours would be rewarded with taquitos - crisp, savoury pastries prepared by the basement folk on festive occasions. The scent of microwaved bean-paste filled my nostrils. There was no choice but to stay.

It seemed like I stayed there for only an hour. But when I emerged blinking into the daylight, gray whiskers reaching down to my midriff, I realized that nearly a week had passed. Time works differently in the Otherworld than in our mundane universe. That's when I understood, to my horror, the true purpose of the free snacks. I had dined at the table of the Gentry. Never again would I be able to return fully to the human realm. I was destined to become one of the knoll folk.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one to fall prey to such a trap. During these first couple weeks of classes, it seems as though the campus is full of people recruiting. Fraternities set up tents, offering students the opportunity to purchase friends on the go. Clubs (but, disappointingly, no Lodges) try to entice new members. Diverse sects (and, perhaps, some cults) hand out pamphlets and cards. I got one the other day that informed me "God is better than Sex." Turns out I had it wrong all along.

For the very first week, the Student Union Building was a sort of bazaar. Every time I passed through, phonemongers would try desperately to sell me a new three-year plan. Wizened women in brightly-coloured scarves proffered student lines of credit. Portly, loquacious merchants hawked UBC t-shirts to passersby. It was a gaudy and frantic scene, filled with the sort of crass consumerism that would have disgusted me in my teenage punk days. I've long since surrendered my pride and liberty to the mighty dollar, however, and the spectacle of thousands of my peers lapping up the excretions of Moloch seems only natural - comforting, almost. I myself plan on visiting the Imaginus poster sale this afternoon, and buying decorations for my room. Something "fresh," like a poster of Bob Marley, or a print of "Crazy Stairs."

It's not all buying and selling, though. There have been numerous opportunities to indulge in free hot dogs, hamburgers, and other delights. Last week a man showed up in my neighbourhood and began grilling. Within minutes, denizens of the area were lined up around the block, each patiently waiting their turn for delicious charred meat. Even in the 21st century, we're ruled by a mead-hall mentality straight out of Beowulf, a hunger for the communal carnivorous experience. If you grill it, they will come. I didn't realize how many people lived in Fairview Place until the free barbeque. I haven't seen most of them since. I can only hope for their sakes that the meat wasn't tainted with the same fairy magic that has made me a slave to the Ubysseyan Underlords.

The start-of-school fervour is dying down now. Already life is becoming routine. I'm more sleep-deprived than I have been in ages. Most of my classes start in the morning, and most of my drinking starts in the afternoon. Sleep usually happens very late at night, sometimes suddenly and without warning. Pretty soon I'll have to break the pattern and start behaving like something closer to an adult. Sleep deprivation leads to physical and emotional stress, and do you know what those lead to? The dread Pig Virus, that squealing plague that threatens to swallow our civilization whole. Everywhere there are hand sanitizers and posters warning about associating with the wrong microbes. My irresponsible behaviour could give the plague a toehold, allow it access to the delicate microsystem of the UBC campus. Soon, students will trot about on all fours, rooting behind trash bins for scraps, bathing in mud and feces as protection against flies and the hot sun. Spoiler warning: It will be Animal Farm reversed. Next year, maybe they'll serve pork chops at the first week barbeques.

It's almost two years since I graduated from high school and my old haircut already looks dated. Like most people, I have mixed emotions about that period. I have no desire to return. However, I recognize its importance. I'll inevitably snoop on my ex-classmates' Facebook pages for some time, tracking who's married and who's not.

I liked high school because it did a lot for my identity. It fostered a love of plaid shirts, for example.

However, in March of my senior year, I began to lose confidence in the institution. March was when I received my first acceptance letters from university. Around then, I started asking questions I couldn't answer. Where did I want to go and how would I get there? I didn't know. All the preparations for adulthood I'd been making seemed flimsy.

I panicked. I deferred my admission at two schools and took a year off to work. I didn't want to spend $18,000 to noodle around at a school I didn't want to attend. I wanted direction.

Outside of high school, I found direction. I don't know if it was the asbestos in the walls or the lead water pipes but my old high school created a lot of confusion for me. Outside of it, I could think with clarity.

I don't think you need a gap year to find clarity. You do need space, time, self-reflection and the advice of adults. Old people know a lot of stuff. Eventually, you'll be able to understand and shape the factors that pretty much every student faces. Factors that you can put in an equation like this:

P + B + W + Y = DL

Where,

P = your parents.

B = your budget.

W= whatever set of ideas or beliefs you follow.

Y= you and your (in)experience.

DL = the Doctor or Lawyer. Like half the world's students, this was my default career setting.

I don't know everything yet. I don't know where I am going. I do have goals that ask a lot of me. I have a field of study and I know what my interests and skills are. I also know my bad habits, which is also important.

If I were to tell my 17-year-old self one thing, it would be to chill out. I'd say you've an enormous amount of time to figure it out. Enjoy the last months of your free education, skip a class or do something crazy. Because on the final day of class, when you're hanging in the parking lot under the afternoon sun, that's it. From now on, everything will be a little different.

My floormate Julien announced earlier this week that he was considering transferring to a small liberal arts school in the U.S. His announcement wasn't particularly surprising. Since Julien arrived at U of T, he's had an on-and-off relationship with the school.  When it's really off, I hear him down the hall, swearing in his room. Even with my door closed and ear plugs in.

Julien doesn't like the size of his classes, he doesn't like the school's large bureaucracy and he thinks U of T lacks school spirit. His qualms aren't unique among U of T students. In the Globe and Mail's student satisfaction surveys, U of T pokes near the bottom in a few categories. With reviews like that, how can the university still attract students?

Because it offers tremendous opportunity. From expansive course lists to state-of-the-art research facilities, to thousands of student clubs and hot shot professors, it commands incredible resources. The struggle at U of T, or any big university, is to seize the resources that are available to you.

In big schools, administrators and professors do not engage with you; you engage with them. You book appointments with the registrar, you approach professors during office hours, and your education is entirely your own. It takes effort and patience and it can be overwhelming, but it pays off. Julien's marks are good, he conducts his own research and every year he forms close relationships with at least one or two of his professors.

Julien may complain, but his U of T experience has been positive. That's why, when I spoke to him two days later, his threat to transfer still hadn't been carried out. Indeed, all he had was a Williams College mug. And a bitterness common to big university undergrads when they discuss the lesser points of their school.