graduation

Graduate.

You will all now address me as The Graduate, your supreme overlord. The Graduate is the most powerful being in the universe, and with his trusty diploma, he can accomplish virtually anything–except picking up girls. Wah-Wah.

I’m kidding. Don’t say it if you don’t want to say it, but, if you are feeling generous…

Well, folks, this whole year has been leading up to this moment. I have graduated from the institution in which I have been held captive for four years, suffering the tyrannies of  the Board of Education and their malevolent curriculums! Oh, I can’t stand to think of it now, makes me shiver and tingle inside, or is that because I have to pee?

T’was a brilliant ceremony, quite sophisticated, since, as you know, I am the most sophisticated person in the world. I top Jay Gatsby in the amount of bad ass parties hosted–ahem, at least, that’s what last year’s census told me. I received my diploma with excellent poise and form, an act to make the strongest of men break down in tears of utter respect for the beauty of simplicity.

I shook hands with my teachers, many of whom smiled and gave the customary good luck, and, in the past week, I have accumulated quite the sum of money. It is a lot. I can sleep on the stuff; although, much to the contrary of what millionaires–like myself–confess, it is not comfortable sleeping on a mattress of one dollar bills.

Our family ate at a German restaurant, aptly named Edelweiss, otherwise known as the greatest German restaurant this side of the Colorado-German border–and, yes, that is a thing. Musicians played for us, an accordionist and a guitarist; in between songs, we spoke about our various heritages and how much Indian traits we had, considering the guitarist was of Cherokee descent, and I, and my mother, are from Oklahoma.

But enough of history. Shall we focus on the present, or the future?

The future is college–and I have talked about it countless times in countless posts, so I will not bore you with repetition. Rather, let’s start a conversation about how damned frustrating tassels can be, because I am sure many of have gone through the hell of flipping the tassel out of your eyes and onto the top of your cap; but, you’re S.O.L, seeing as how the cap is a flimsy piece of cardboard that does not allow to bend your neck downwards for one second.

Screw you, Cap and Gown Manufacturers, wherever you’re hiding! I have no idea how you sleep at night, and whether or not it’s on coins or dollar bills! But I stopped caring five seconds ago, so there!

Whew, that felt nice, just like graduating.

Good-bye high school, and hello college.

Dammit! I mentioned college again!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

AAAHH! I’m Almost A High School Graduate!

I have a calendar in my bedroom. It’s this giant–well, not giant–calendar, I suppose, that  has all my favorite little due dates and events written all across the days; and they are numbered.

I was looking at this calendar yesterday, flipping forward through time to the month of May and thinking about what I wanted for my birthday when, out of nowhere, it hit me: I am going to graduate high school a week after my birthday, on May 27th!

“Oh, Mamma mia,” I said–then I passed out on the floor.

Correction: I did not pass out. Rather, I screamed in my brain–or my brain screamed in me?–and went to finish that darn math homework that I had been putting off for three days. So, yes, I did freak out. Everyone freaks out. But that’s okay. It’s only high school, after all.

Only high school?

I have to find a college!

I have to buy a house! Or an extremely cheap apartment with a dirtbag for a landlord!

I have to cook! And not Hot Pockets or Pop-Tarts!

I have to be a man!

How does that work, by the way? Do I grow a rug on my chest the night after graduation and find myself speaking like Christopher Reeves in Superman? Is my dad gonna leave a pair of boots outside my door with a note reading, “Son, it is time for these boots to be filled?”

High school is slowly slipping away…I think I might cry, tear up a little. I’m being taken willingly away from this minefield of social cliques where, if you have a wayward opinion, you’ll get the shit kicked out of you and be forced to eat it on a silver platter; where the food is–okay, the food is all right. Oh, sob, sob, tear; waterfalls from my eyeballs. Tell my principal to save a spot for me in the lunchroom for when I–oh, wait, I won’t be coming back.

At least in college, or, hopefully in college, there will be freedom and excellent food and magnificent teachers and Shetland ponies…and four quartz diamonds and…a pool shaped like a brain and filled with money?

Sorry, I was reading from the wrong script.

Someone traded me for Impossible Fantasies For When You’re Totally Broke.

Yay, college?

Think daily,

A Southpaw