This will be the last “Artsetceterant” ever. Stop cheering — that’s mean. As of this weekend, I will no longer be able to type my name with a hyphen followed by the words “Arts Editor.” I will never again receive press releases about cheese museum openings in Northern Wisconsin encouraging me to drive three hours and sample the Brie. No more free tickets to see the ukulele ensemble. Sigh. Such are the spoils of power.

But the hardest thing to give up, probably, will be the hate mail. I have grown deeply fond of being told that I am an idiot and that I suck. Fervently typed diatribes on the various and myriad ways that I have failed as a human being affect me in ways that I can never explain. Thank God I’m pursuing a field that will allow me to fill this void of detestation; I’m going to be a filmmaker.

Someday, I will spend countless hours of my life creating a film that I will view as a masterpiece and my gift to the world of cinema. I will devote myself to the project so feverishly that all of my loved ones will abandon me. I will destroy any semblance of health that I have left as I replace sleeping and eating with drinking and smoking. When it is finally completed, I will present it to the public with immeasurable pride.

Then, some little punk critic working at a college newspaper will go see my film and proceed to systematically rip it to shreds, chew it up, and spit it out in the form of journalistic bile. This sniping upstart reviewer will call me an idiot and tell me that I suck. Fabulous. I have spent my entire college career thus far boldly and mercilessly criticizing the works of others. So when this all unfolds, creative karma will have been served.

Therefore, just to make everyone’s lives a little easier, I’ve decided to write the review myself.

Future bitter and spiteful college newspaper critics can just print this instead of their own poorly written analysis. You’re welcome.

Kate MacDonald has quite possibly created the most insulting, disgusting, vile piece of cinematic trash ever to soil the surface of celluloid. Her freshman filmmaking attempt, “Can I Crash at your Place?” is clearly autobiographical. The film follows the misadventures of a young female student named Tate who spends a substantial amount of time wondering around parking ramps looking for her misplaced car.

Tate is portrayed in the film by veteran television personality Sharon Osbourne. There are a disproportionate number of scenes in the film that simply feature Russell Crowe walking around his house nude. The scenes do nothing to advance the plot; they are awkward and clearly unnecessary. Furthermore, it is unclear if Crowe is even aware that he is being filmed.

MacDonald is widely known in entertainment circles as a wildly erratic misfit. Prone to on-set temper tantrums and alcohol related blackouts, it’s a wonder this film was even completed.

“Can I Crash at your Place” is as insulting to the ears as it is to the eyes. The soundtrack features the music of such washed-up no-talents as “Ace of Base” and “Snow.” The script is profanity laden while surprisingly shallow.

Kate MacDonald is a disgrace to the art of film, she is an idiot and she completely sucks.

Clearly, I will be following my journalism stint with a brilliant career in film. Goodbye student press, hello Hollywood superstardom.