If I had a nickel for every time someone told me their sad summer is ending, my bank account would be twice the size it is now.

That fact becomes less impressive when I realize there is only $1.76 in there. That’s not even enough for a 40-ounce can of Steel Reserve to help me forget about this summer or celebrate my coming graduation.

That’s right, this is my last semester at the University and I am almost giddy that I can finally see the finish line. For me, senioritis kicked in when I was in high school. Not because of the stacks of homework or the coma-inducing professors (“Bueller?…Bueller?…Bueller?…”).

No, it was the summers that did me in. Summers spent doing summer jobs. The jobs nobody else wants to do, with long hours and low pay.

It started the summer after my senior year of high school. I decided to work at the Ohio State Fair at the kids fishing pond.

Cue the flashback.

Once I am up to my stomach in water, I realize my chest waders have sprung a leak. I make a break for land, but being shin-deep in mud and hauling 15 pounds of catfish corpses tends to slow a person down.

The flies in the garbage cans get another free dinner on me, and I peel off my insufficient chest waders.

The water from the catfish pond at the Ohio State Fair is a unique shade of brown, which makes it look like I have an explosive case of irritable bowel syndrome. It doesn’t help that I smell like a water treatment plant.

I spend the evening warding off flies with a flamethrower that I MacGyver from a box of matches, a can of wasp spray and a rubber band.

That was just my first summer job. The next year I opt for a cashier job at a local sports store.

On my first day, nobody has time to train me because the store is being audited. There’s nothing quite like just winging it with hundreds of company dollars at stake.

What was left of my patience went out the window dealing with people trying to return jock straps, so I got out of the customer service industry altogether.

The summer after my junior year, my dad hooks me up with a job in the factory where he works. I start my first day at 5 a.m.

That was hard enough before they decided to make us work overtime – in the morning.

I work 4 a.m. to 2 p.m., plus Saturdays, for the rest of the summer.

The only difference between a piece of a machinery and me is that I complained and moaned. The only thing more inescapeable than the endless hours was the sense of irony you can only get assembling huge air conditioners in a hot factory.

That brings me to this past summer. While pursuing an internship, I find a job working for a news Web site near home. The work is fulfilling, challenging and eye-opening.

Of course, it is an unpaid internship. At first I think that if I can manage my money well, I can make it through the summer.

I have $1.76 in my pocket.

My summer was bearable in no small part thanks to my sugar-momma girlfriend.

While I appreciate her help this summer, there are few things as embarassing as hearing the server say “Here’s the check, sir” as my girlfriend simultaneously lays down her MasterCard.

I am looking forward to graduating so I can finally move past all the summer jobs. Confronting my weight in dead fish, used jock straps, sleep-driving to work and bankruptcy has made me think life in a cubicle wouldn’t be so bad. After all, it could be worse.