I regret to admit that my efforts as a senior columnist have failed thus far. My ultimate narcissistic goal, of course, was to have a stranger stop me on the street and say,“Hey, you’re that guy from the Tribune.”

I suspect this is a big joke at my expense.

I mean, I’m totally famous, since everyone religiously reads the Thursday edition of the Tribune, and not just for the time-wasters. Although I do think we could get more readers by having front page stories about Sodexo because people might think it says Sudoku.

But we can’t do that. We’re an award- winning college paper, which brings me back to my lust for fame.

Seeking celebrity is not the actual reason behind why I write, but the idea raises a good question about the motives of a columnist.

There could be a fine line between whether I’m writing because I enjoy doing it on its own, or if I’m writing because I enjoy having people read my name. On top of that, because I’m a senior, it’s hard to tell whether or not I have a legacy complex.

Let me explain.

I was one of the lucky students to attend the master class with award-winning Esquire writer, Mike Sager, on Monday. At one point, he went on a tangent about how college is a simulacrum for stages in life.

Your 20s are like your freshman year, not having a clue what’s going on with your life.

In your 30s, you think you have a clue but you really don’t, like sophomores.

You get the picture.

Later on, amid senior status, you start to look back and evaluate your accomplishments … but sometimes that reflection leaves you feeling like you still haven’t left a lasting image.

So just like an older person questions the legacy they’ve left on the world, seniors might scratch and claw to leave a mark in their last semesters at Marquette.

I’ll tell you the baseball club definitely left its mark on Eau Claire last weekend. (I had to give a shout out sooner or later.)

The thing is, people want to leave some kind of legacy behind because knowing you’ve left a mark somewhere turns into one of your strongest memories of that time and place.

For instance, the only college story I can remember my dad telling me was what he left behind during his four years of undergrad. However, I’m not sure having a window in your frat house named after you because of how frequently you vomited out of it counts as a legacy.

Still, going to a reunion and meeting someone 25 years younger who says, “You’re the guy with the window!” grants him some degree of legendary status. What a boss.

So what am I?

I could be the guy who gave the Discovery Learning Complex the moniker of “the Disco.” I know that hasn’t caught on yet, but it should.

To be honest, saying you’re going to the Disco sounds so much better than going to the DLC. It’s also fewer syllables. And you can blow the minds of exchange students who’ll think you’re going to the nightclub at 9 a.m.

Or I could be the guy who makes and sells “I turned 19 and 20 at Angelo’s,” T-shirts to seniors, since we are the last group that could ever say that.

You see, no incoming class thinks it’s going to be the last one to be able to say something like that. It just proves how temporal college is, even for businesses. Angelo’s left its mark, but only for those that were here for it. Think about Hegarty’s.

So if you feel like you’re leaving a mark, I say more power to you. But don’t lose sight of what’s more important. Down the road, when you look back at college, your mark won’t have as much of an impact on your life as you might think it could.

It’s not whether you leave a legacy at Marquette, it’s whether Marquette leaves a legacy within you.