Graduation felt like it lasted a year, but in actuality it lasted three hours. Four if you count the hour before the service when all of the seniors got ready in the back rooms of the megachurch where the service was held. I seemed to be one of a rare few that liked the graduation caps. They’re kind of swim-cap chic, and you can put things on top. Totes fab. Totes cute.
Everyone mulled around and talked about how fast it had all gone by and took pictures with one another. I just watched. They seemed either sad or relieved, but I don’t think I could really feel anything. I think I felt so frustrated with the school in the past that, in my mind, I had already graduated. I had closed the door, and this was the final click of the lock.
Anyway, as each person gets their diploma, the headmaster always reads out three to four descriptions that the teachers brew up for the occasion. The best were the cheesy ones, like “FIND HIM AT THE GOLF COURSE” or “STILL WATERS RUN DEEP.” When my turn came, my first adjective was “indie,” which made me kind of screw up my face and be super confused for the rest of forever. Like, what does that mean? Am I a music label, one that makes very little money but has a good reputation in the blogosphere?
After graduation, the whole grade took a boat cruise. We were finally able to dance to explicit music in a school setting, and everyone smoked cigars and pipes with the teachers. I was giddily laughing as I lit my cigar next to the dean of students. He told me to get a grip, which made me laugh even harder. I spent the rest of the ride at the front of the boat, looking out on the water and embracing my lonerism while secretly betting with myself about how many people would come up and talk to me. I talked to one of my classmates about Harry Styles, Christopher Owens, and RuPaul for forever. One kid told me that he was just so glad that we were finally in the “real world” and that all of the kids in our grade suddenly seemed so real. YA KNOW? Because everyone in high school is imaginary and the minute you smoke a cigar and sing along to “Crazy Rap” you magically become flesh and blood.
I’ve spent the last few days alone in my room, wasting my time reading every blog and article on the internet. I’m watching too much TV, eating incredible amounts of candy, not getting any sun, and writing more in my diary than I have all year. Most of it is speculation on whether or not the people I’ve built up in my mind as my friends are actually my friends, whether or not it’s my fault that I’m a loner, and how I can maybe change that. I don’t want to sit around and think about how the girl I call my best friend has only once invited me to do anything with her in the past four years or how every time I invite anyone new to anything, they stand me up. I’ve moved on from caring about what they think of me. Which is good, because those friendships were never really right. Which is bad, because now I’m at a point where I need people to talk to. To hang out with.
I bought two tickets to a Justin Bieber concert next year. I unironically and unconditionally love his music. I just about pee my pants every time I think about it. Hopefully, by next year, I will have someone to go to that concert with me. ♦