Viva la Graduation

So after my final finals week, and being tazed (bro) on Fountain, the University-endorsed/parent-sponsored inebriation festival called Senior Week began. Tuesday night's TV Land theme inspired some impressive outfits, like the many incarnations of Arrested D's Tobias. Mollie and I dressed as a team from Double Dare. Unfortunately I was only wearing elbow pads (too cheap to buy kneepads), so later in the night when I decided to nonchalantly nosedive into the ground, I ripped open my left knee and made my right knee purple. Tick tock--booze o'clock! Wednesday sucked and they should have taken us to Foxwoods instead of on the Highway to Hell. I spent a majority of Thursday's semi-formal trying to convince the "DJ" to play Usher's "Love In This Club," which he didn't own, a gross oversight on his part. Also, I wore a fake fur jacket from Forever 21, an excellent idea on my part, I must contend.

My parents showed up on Friday, bringing the good news that items my dog recently consumed are: a glass bottle, a computer keyboard. They took me to the liquor store where I snagged several Popov boxes to pack my shit in. I would, ideally, like to smell like an alcoholic for the foreseeable future. Then, we didn't have dinner reservations because I refuse to be organized or ensure that anyone has an enjoyable time, so at 6:30 p.m. Google assisted me in locating a restaurant.



An honest and vivid description, but we decided to go to a less-dilapidated place, The Ivory Tavern, instead. The Ivory Tavern had colonial-themed decor, a Rotary Club banner and a current American flag with all of the Union's stars on it; however, the music choice happened to be reggae, indicating either an interior design identity crisis or an homage to the Three-Fifths Compromise. I couldn't pinpoint the underlying message. But the food was decent. B/B+ overall.

An amusing anecdote from Saturday:

Me (answering my cell phone): Hello?
My French advisor: Where are you?
Me (eating ice cream like a fat kid in my backyard): Uhh...where am I supposed to be?
Him: At the inauguration ceremony for the French Honors Society. It was supposed to start at 1:30 and we're waiting for you.
Me: ...
Him: ...
Me: What time is it now?
Him: 1:45.
Me: I'm going to be late.

The ceremony involved candles (bougies!), a pledge, certificates, Greek letters, pins, hazing, les kegstands, and my French professors trying to acheter des billets pour voir Obama le dimanche. That night, my parents and I attended a large party in a tent on the field, with an open bar and hundreds of students and alums. In their hour of PaRtYiNg, my parents met an interesting sampling of my so-called friends from my so-called life; specifically a notable introduction to an intoxicated Kyra who told my mother very close to her face how much we look alike, my former News editor and his twin, and a kid who bummed a lighter off of me at Wednesday's senior outing who I hadn't ever seen prior to then. After the tent party broke up (and we witnessed the carjacking of several golf carts flying down the hill), everyone naturally relocated to my backyard, where 500 dbags made a huge mess that was fun to explain to my baby cousins in the morning. "Is that a soda can?" "Sure." "Is that a piece of rolled up paper?" "Sure." "Is that someone's blood?" "Actually, yes it is, and you probably shouldn't be touching it."

Thus, Sunday, graduation day. All students arrived in the lounge in the dorm where I lived freshman year. My last memory there was of one of my hallmates on drugs screaming about bugs crawling all over him. This time, I was walking through metal detectors and being frisked. Circle of $40,000/year life. Although there was no rehearsal, the faculty marshals somehow managed to organize all of us alphabetically (a THEN b THEN c, omfg) within 30 minutes. We were given cards explaining what we needed to do, like sit down, breathe, blink, go up to the stage when we hear our name, salivate every time they ring a bell. My favorite tip:

Leave a space in line and when you sit if your partner does not arrive. S/he may come later and would probably like to sit down too.

Damn--sassy badditude! We marched in to some sort of drum circle. There were snipers on Olin and Secret Security dudes chilling on stage. It was a billion degrees and they gave us Dasani water like we wuz peasants. Blah, blah, blah. Some mediocre speeches and then Obama, who you may have heard of from the TV, addressed us.



Yes, I am still for whatever reason poorly blurring out the name of my college/university. And yes, when I got my diploma, I shook Obama's hand. Then, I shook the hand of my college/university's president, and he went in for a hug, and it evolved into one of those (t)hugs in which you shake hands and simultaneously embrace, and all was right with the world. An equally exciting part of the day was seeing everyone's vampire-hairline sunburns from their caps, as I like to take pleasure in others' pain.

So, that's it for my undergraduate career. Moved out, dropped off a bunch of stuff in the PODS which turned into a townie rummage sale. Despite all these fabulous moments over the last week, I have to admit I just experienced the greatest high of all time: deleting The RIDE's number from my cell phone. R.I.P. college/university, you old bitch. I'm Michigone-gone.