Sappy Graduation Post, Well, It’s Not That Sappy, but Whatever, It’s a Graduation Post but It’s Mostly About Sherman and Yes This Whole Sentence Is the Title of This Post.
You’re not cool if you don’t recognize the guy in this picture.
I graduated today, only not. Technically, I graduated early. Impressive, no? The answer actually is no because I only graduated a semester early, and honestly, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to be so damn efficient in my college career.
That’s a lie. I was not at all efficient in my college career, but in high school I did dual credit stuff at a community college so I could hang out with potheads who had animal hoarding problems. But that’s a story for another time.
Because I took those community college classes as a teen with misplaced anger issues, I didn’t have to go to college for as long as I thought I would. My plan was to go to Austin College (not in Austin) for a year or so, then transfer to a school that actually offered a program I was interested in. I swore I would not graduate from Austin College. I refused. I was going somewhere better.
I never transferred, and thank God for that.
There was blood everywhere, and tears in her eyes.
God, that sounds like the chorus to a Hawthorne Heights song.
I didn’t mean to punch Shelby Waters in the face. I didn’t mean to break her nose. I didn’t even know I could break noses. I couldn’t even snap a pencil in two, which was pretty embarrassing when I tried in front of my sister, then the next day she told her whole second grade class.
Maybe I should back up.
I’ve been balls-to-the-wall in love with Shelby Waters for two years, ever since she transferred to my high school and lent me a pencil during sophomore year English. She smiled at me, and that was it. It was all over. I’ve never been able to look at another girl. I think I still have it. The pencil, I mean. It’s pink. Don’t tell her, though, ‘cause I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker. I’m not a stalker. I mean, I stare at her a lot, but I don’t wait outside her house in the rain dressed like the Unabomber.
In the spirit of the popular twitter feed whose name I ripped off of when creating my blog, I thought I’d provide you with some phrases from my very own dear ol’ dad. Here’s a small dictionary of his phrases:
“German Abortion”: One’s wife’s dying Mercedes convertible.
“The Slime That Slime Would Spit On”: An asshole who drives recklessly or cuts one off in rush hour traffic.
Used in a sentence: “You’re slime! No, you’re the slime that slime would spit on!”
“D-E-D Dead”: The traditional meaning of the word “dead”, but spelled aloud incorrectly.
“Retard School”: An imaginary school where stupid people go and are treated like those with intellectual disabilities. In this school, the students are required to wear helmets at all times.
I wrote this, most likely on some kind of sugar high the day before it was due, for part of a writing “packet” I had to turn in as my final when I took a creative writing class. It’s loaded with marching band references most people won’t understand, and if some people with marching band experience read this, they might not find it terribly accurate.
The bus pulled into the Canon ISD Stadium at 8:00 am for the Canon Marching Band Festival, but Mr. Avery wasn’t letting us get off yet. Most kids were asleep. Megan and Adair were sitting behind Chase and me. They were both listening to Megan’s pink iPod and they kept kicking the back of our seat to the beat. I knew they were listening to “Party in the USA” because I could hear it. I wished they would quit it; my back was staring to hurt.
“Miley Cyrus sucks,” I said.
“Yeah,” agreed Chase, “but she’s kinda hot.”
I frowned. To me, Miley Cyrus looked like she was ten. “Gross.”
“Charlie, did you just say Miley Cyrus was gross?” Megan gasped, poked her little black-haired head up over our seat and yanked the headphones out of her ears.
“What about Miley?” Adair shouted over the music only she could hear.
“Miley Cyrus is a famous singer and actress. She even has her own clothing line. I’m pretty sure that makes her cooler than you two losers.” Megan stuck out her tongue at us through her purplish lips.
“Not for long!” Chase got excited. “Not when our band gets discovered!”
It wasn’t much of a band. It was Chase, our Mexican pal, Ricky Martinez (Ricky Martin when we felt like being mean), and some guy named Jed he met at the bowling alley who was like thirty years old. One day Chase told me I was the manager and since then I’d been going to his house every Sunday night for band practice. So during every practice, I ate my weight in Cheetos while sitting on Chase’s couch and watching the band, or “Attack of the Weasels,” play Guitar Hero, the real instruments lying in the background untouched. I’d stopped going recently, though, because Jed was starting to creep me out. I thought he’d been going to Chase’s house to hit on his mom, but it was starting to seem like he was more interested in Chase.
You know how naggy moms tell you to be home by midnight, because nothing good happens after 12:00 a.m.? Well, I disagree with that entirely.
Plenty of great things happen after 12. Sex, drugs, alcohol, late-night burritos and burgers– All these things are very healthy. What you really need to watch out for is what goes on past 7 a.m. No good happens between the hours of 7:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Here’s why: