What follows is a night of such intense and prolonged debauchery that you know you'd never forget it, if only you could remember any of it. You make a concerted effort to keep it together when you rouse yourself enough to stumble toward the Main Hall, and you're feeling pretty proud of your fortitude until a surly janitor informs you that it is the weekend, and the big thesis selection event happened two days ago. It would appear that you partied in a hearty enough fashion that you managed to drink yourself out of the graduate program entirely.

The stark realization that your life's work has been undone by a single evening of cutting loose makes you realize that with nothing left to lose, you might as well keep the party going. Your small apartment becomes the source of a never-ending bender as you blow the rest of your savings on living large. It certainly makes you popular with the student body, and before too long that popularity leads to your presence at the free clinic.

During one of your most recent blowouts, you apparently caught a venereal disease from a Tralfamadorian, perhaps the first case of it among your kind in recorded history. The bad news is that it's incurable. The good news is that you are now able to perceive reality in four dimensions instead of three. Freed from the shackles of time's one-way street, you are able not just to theorize about the factors leading to a society's collapse, but view them firsthand as they happen(ed). You become a galactic historian of great renown, providing you the ultimate revenge against your former faculty as they eventually present you with an honorary doctorate for your tireless efforts in expanding galactic knowledge. Three cheers for wanton merrymaking!
End Of Story