I remember last year I went to bed on the night before the first day of school during a violent storm which raged long into the night that's the least likely one of the year for me to fall asleep when I need to even when everything is calm. I was dreading junior year enough already, and I didn't need the sledgehammer symbolism to bash that point in. Last Thursday night there wasn't a lot of sleep, but there wasn't any mental storms going on either. We are now the kings who stand atop our school, and from up here I see reaping joy in pestering Mr. McGuire, being principal for a day, and later on, not caring harder than I've ever not cared before and stretching the bounds of apathy. We're seniors and there's no turning back, so we might as well stop fighting the tide.
Mr. Trafton gave us the weekend assignment of writing one page, double-spaced about our summer without using the letter "e". Considering what I just wrote above had 146 e's in it, you can imagine this was just wheelbarrows of fun to do. Here's my summer eulogy.
Launching a tumultuous but amusing vacation, a tour into origins of customs and tradition throughout our old world took us to Italy, Austria, and so forth. In a land of Alps our party stood at a summit, that of Mount Pilatus, and naturally, as any kids should, flung coins and trash. Our ally Grant would habitually wind up in a condition of rational loss, finding simply walking back to our inn a tricky trial. Including card playing, savoring conos cioccolato and amorous girl-watching, our trip with Karl, captain of bus transportation (and possibly a spy), was singularly striking.
Following a long, slow-going hiatus with my pals and stunning Cara which would consist of fun through valuing insomnia, waking up at noon, and making plans post-dining, I am off to journalism camp at Stanford. Paid in full by our probably too giving school, my gratis trip would consist of mostly unruly conduct not involving instruction, including an illicit outing to find our holy grail of In ‘n Out, of which a cohort from our country’s Atlantic had not had an opportunity to try. Though our goal was unavoidably without triumph, our group found victory in an amusing mission and consolation at a gas station snack stand. Gil, our monotonic camp administrator who would transport around campus in a golf cart, would grow into both an idol and a rival.
A trip to Tijuana was also a significant part of my holiday, but sadly only so many accounts from May to August may fit in this manuscript. Also, my synonym glossary must only contain so many practical and valid words fitting our strict constraints. So, it is with much mourning that I must proclaim a conclusion to a warm lull amid what is a torpor in living by any comparison.