You know what I got to do to celebrate my graduation from high school? Pick up some extra fucking hours at the roast beef and frozen custard stand where I worked and maybe, if it wasn't slammed, hit some nitrous out of the whipped cream canisters in the cooler. Now, if my parents had said to me, "Hey... great job with that high school thing. You want to go to Aruba for a week of Jello shots and balcony tit flashes?," of course I would have said yes. Who's kidding who? I'd still say yes.

But you know what? They didn't offer it and, though I probably missed out on a good time, I'm not missing and presumed kidnapped by natives.

What's my point? Unless you're retarded or living someplace where other kids in the neighborhood take pot shots at you with an AK when you're walking to school, successfully completing 12th grade isn't an accomplishment worthy of a trip to the fucking Caribbean. An '85 Tempo maybe.

And this isn't about jealousy.


Happy graduation. Now mow the fucking lawn, Einstein.

Analogcabin @ 12:17 PM
Permalink |