One last standing ovation
[ 6 Comments ] Posted on 05.07.06 in IB, awesomeness, high school
After I got home from church today, I got this message from my favorite Colombian:
Vie Bizarre: Casey, post your speech from yesterday in your blog
So, because Laura told me to, here’s the speech I gave last night at IB Senior Celebration:
Fellow students, teachers, parents, friends, Mr. McGonegal:
It’s been a crazy four years: sleepless nights, endless lectures, perpetual work, and bottomless cups of coffee. And now we’re growing up, about to venture out into a world where we have to do all of this grown-up stuff: get jobs, pay taxes, … get jobs. It almost seems impossible that these past four years have sneaked up on us so quickly. But, I will remind you that in the time since we entered the hallowed halls of PHUHS, so much has happened that we may have once deemed impossible. The Buccaneers won the Super Bowl, the Red Sox won the World Series, J-Lo and Ben broke up. So, maybe our progression into a big people school was inevitable.
But still, we’re all human. And humans will remember. Humans will reminisce. Humans will think back on the years we’ve spent roaming the hallways of PHU and remember them fondly. What will you remember? Will you remember how no matter where you sat, Señora Gleason feng suied you without fail? Will you remember Mr. Valdez’s unhealthy obsession with Julia Roberts? Or maybe it’ll be the way Pete Just would keep his desk absolutely barren (like his head).
Personally, I’ll remember all of the stuff I didn’t quite understand. Like matrices (sorry, Math Department…). Like who actually killed William Robinson. Like Mr. Coffman’s grading system. And like how in the world I am expected to eat a whole elephant.
To the parents here tonight: thank you for supporting your child through these last four years. Without your support, they wouldn’t be here. And if they weren’t here, I would have no friends. So, thank you. I’m sure they’ll thank you too, as it’ll make college that much easier. That is, they’ll thank you right after they get done screaming, “WHY?! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME!?”
To the faculty and staff here tonight: Henceforth, you will be referred to as officers, Mr. Burkett and Ms. Lowry as marshals, and Dr. Brown as warden. You run a tight ship (especially you, Mrs. Kolhoff), but in the end we know that it’s for our betterment. Palm Harbor is the single best place we could be spending our young and malleable years. Thank you for training us to be responsible young people. And while I use the word “responsible” loosely, I’m sure that you know how much you have impacted our lives.
And finally, to the 40% of you who are NOT going to UF: It’s been a pleasure to have known you. I speak on behalf of everyone who is moving two and a half hours up the Interstate (two if you drive like we do) when I say that we will miss you dearly. The bonds we have formed on this campus are too strong to break, so make sure you keep in touch with us, wherever you go. And yes, that does mean “Facebook me!”
Folks, this is so surreal. Unlike the bouncy-bouncy of the moon landings and the chippy-chippy of the Great Pyramids, this is actually happening. You see the movie Grease and you think that a Danny Zuko-like graduation will never happen to you. But, short of a magic red convertible flying into the sky, it’s here. And it’s happening. Now we know that what once seemed so impossible, so far off in the distance, is truly possible. Now, it’s up to us to make the best of our own futures.
Thank you, Palm Harbor University High School. And thank you, everyone. We’re all in this together.
See you in Gainesville!
You’re a towel!
[ 1 Comment ] Posted on 04.25.06 in observations, random
A couple of years ago, I became fortunate enough to stumble across a particular towel in my linen closet. It was blue, big enough to make a skirt of absorption in which I could roam the house under the guise of actually being clothed, and best of all, it was absorbent.
I’ve found that in life, about 98% of towels made are not absorbent; they merely sop up the water from your skin and become a slosh of fibers and hard water from the shower. But this one, it’s different. I can dry every inch of every crevice of my wet and naked body without having to switch to another towel.
Now, I’m afraid that my beloved blue angel is no more. Mom convinced me to send Towlie to the great washing machine in the sky. It was time, though – he was tattered and torn so much that you would think Ive been using him to dry my pet porcupine.
In the meantime, I’ve switched to another towel. And while this one is much larger (I can envelop myself like a human burrito), it lacks the principle quality of absorption that I’ve taken for granted during the last two years of my high school career. This upsets me, so I think I will protest the absence of an acceptable drying device in my home by not showering for a while. Then, maybe someone with whom I reside will notice the wretched stench and toss a suitable towel my way.
And no, I do not have a pet porcupine.
The Lowlight of my Day
[ 2 Comments ] Posted on 04.18.06 in complaints, observations
I was never permitted to go to the big peoples’ doctor. I would always be sitting there, in a room full of little snot-nosed children whining to their mothers, waiting for my overly friendly pediatrician to call me in so that he could tell me how bad my acne was getting.
So today, I walked in because I had to get some paperwork filled out before I could go to college. I was the only person who could grow facial hair in the entire room. None of the secretaries could do it (I hope), none of the mothers who had to take the day off from work to bring their little bundles of joy in for medical care could do it (I hope), and none of the kids in the waiting room could do it, either.
So, while I was waiting for my appointment to get scheduled, I took a seat to check out the reading material. And you know what I hate?
Every doctor’s office in the known universe has a copy of Highlights Magazine. And every copy of Highlights Magazine has that sweet hidden picture puzzle where you have to find a baseball, canoe, and umbrella in a seemingly normal landscape. But the thing that gets me is that in every copy of this magazine in every doctor’s office across America, some stupid kid went and found them all for you. There you are, sitting there ready to play paper detective, and that fat kid with the mumps went and stole your glory.
Go spit, fat kid with the mumps. I’m sick of you.