This has been my life for the past two years. Two years in this 10-by-10 office and now there’s this huge void in my life.

So, I figure what better way to step out of The Daily Orange sports office than by bringing you into it? (That, and I didn’t want to interview anyone.)

So here it is. One last nonsensical tirade. (With some of the best moments of my Daily Orange life mixed in)

Spring 2004 Ryan Gainor, our girth-challenged managing editor emeritus, stood downstairs alongside his then-girlfriend Elyse Andrews, assistant copy editor. Matt Finley, our art director, stood beside both of them. Somehow, everyone started talking about our favorite animals. Someone mentions a manatee.

‘What about you, Elyse,’ someone asks, ‘do you like manatees?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘They’re too fat and ugly.’

‘Elyse,’ Finley said. ‘You’re dating Gainor.’

Spring 2004 Good Anish Shroff story. He warmed America’s hearts with his dashing good looks on ‘Dream Job.’ But before all that, he was just a WAER radio jock.

During our annual Media Cup (Surely, ye hath mentally rehashed W.F. Whence’s prose appraising the performances), our staff thug Anthony Mague whipped a ball at a pestering AER defender.

Shroff stormed up to Mague: ‘Why don’t you show some (expletive) professionalism?’ Real professional, Anish. I’m just busting on you.

— Ryan Hickey – Your poor team just can’t win. And you don’t spew bull about it. You keep it real, man.

— Mac Gifford – I only spoke with you once. But when you’re not driving a D.O.er home, you provide us with one-liners to quench our insatiable appetite for them.

— Brendan Carney – Perhaps the only athlete to refer to me by my name (expletive-free, that is).

Dean Foti – Still won’t talk to us because of an admittedly harsh column. I wrote about the men’s soccer team last year. An excerpt:

Syracuse is duping itself if it thinks any positive is coming out of this season. It’s reached the point where watching SU is like watching an infant trying to walk.

I’m done, coach. And, hey, it was all tongue-in-cheek anyway.

— R.J. Anderson – I considered dedicating my entire final column to the former football team’s starting quarterback. But he wasn’t home when I called. Too bad.

No, R.J. and I aren’t on a first-name basis, but he’s a good man. We have a lot in common. We’re two young, bitter hacks. ‘It’s no secret,’ R.J. once said. ‘I hate everyone.’ What a man.

— Marianna Freeman – She dubbed me one of the two Doctors of Doom because we were cynical about her 10-18 team. Who woulda thought?

I can’t just rip others in my final column. That’d be too much like my others.

Now, it’s time for me to rip … me.

In Dec. 2003 during the last week of the paper, we played Secret Santa. Instead of presents, though, Secret Santas make their partners do embarrassing things all week. I had to wear a pizza box with a picture of a giant male … exterior … taped on. Another unidentified staff writer, who I’ll only refer to as Michael Licker, had to apply lipstick and cheek-kiss me.

Unfortunately, this is the second time this is running in the paper. Ace photographer Jared Novack caught the moment and ran it later that week.

Oh, and another thing. Great headshot I got – both this year and last. Receding hairline, awkward smile, crank in my neck. Great.

This year looks a lot better, too, mushroom head. I’ll be featured as the next Chia Pet, in case you’re interested.

So, that’s it. I’m done. No more 18-hour workdays. No more nonsense. No more hearing writers bitch about having no time when the editors work seven hours per night.

No more D.O. I’m out.