at least, that's my excuse for not blogging sooner. SOO-RRRY.
Alright so I don't exactly have a topic for today's blog, so I will type with my eyes closed and see how that works out... starting, NOW.
So iu dihfnhfjdhnf assume that sthis is not goning to go over so well, so lets home it isnt a cokmplete and utter fdsailure. its slate and im a litleel biut tired, but you guys are far too important to me for ojh me to boirgh blog righojfnldsfg nofr.
Right, well that wasn't very successful now, was it? We can mark that up on the list of complete failures, right next to my dancing skills and being patient when driving behind tractors.
On the horizon lies a terrifying and exciting day that is the talk of the classroom these days, it seems. Facebook groups have been created, speeches are being arranged, procrastinators are struggling to find a dress that doesn't make them feel like that octopus from the little mermaid.
If you haven't caught on yet, it's GRAD. Oh yes, Grad. 45 days remaining, according to my handy cell-phone countdown application. It also tells me it's been 115 days since Christmas. Interesting.
Now, I have the honor of being my class' 'Master of Ceremonies', or whatever, for the banquet. Now, don't get me wrong, it is a great honor. But to be honest, they're expecting me to be funny. I don't exactly script this stuff. Besides, the older folk probably don't understand my humor. They might even find me to be a bit rude. Luckily, I will have Simon (holla!) standing faithfully by my side, co-mc'ing it up with me. If I go down, he's coming with me. Meanwhile, we will just panic and hyperventalate.
On to an equally, if not more-so, horrifying realization: Grad dates. Let's be real, I can claim to be cool with the idea of going stag, but theres a tiny part inside every 'I-don't-need-a-man' woman that is throwing a hissy-fit about the fact that they haven't been asked to grad yet. Now, that's not neccessarily the case in my situation, but I would like to have a date.
BUT WHO TO ASK?
I'm mostly concerned for the poor guy that would go with me, not because I would be his date (although, I do pity the fool), but because whilst I would be onstage desperately trying to entertain the hungry graduates-and-assorted-relatives, he would be left all alone at the table with my parents. All. Alone.
With my parents.
[insert shudder here]
Who knows what horrible things my parents would put the boy through? I mean, I have to sit at the same table as them almost every evening. I grew up with it, I've learned to stomach it. But he wouldn't even know what was coming. It would be unexpected, therefore he'd have no time to prepare himself. The poor boy.
Now, if a potential date is reading this (hey, boys.) and is suddenly terrified for his life, I understand completely. But if you are up for a little adventure, let me know. You'll survive, don't worry. I will not promise emotional scars, however. You have been warned.