I have waited twelve miserable years to finally claim my fame to Seniordom. Feeling self-righteous, throwing freshmen in trashcans, parking in the senior lot, the whole shebang.
Possibly the most exciting aspect of my twelfth and final year of grade school, however, is the right to complete and total apathetic laziness from August 26 to June 3, commonly referred to as Senioritis.
For the next nine months, I will conduct a scientific study, tracking and observing the level of Senioritis in my body as well as the rest of my class. I hypothesize that as time increases, the amount of Senioritis in the body will increase. (As a side note, I also predict the quality of these columns will significantly decrease.)
Though many students claim that this wonderful, dreadful disease hit them as early as sophomore or junior year, one does not fully understand or experience this ailment until the hubris of seniority kicks in, brewing a deadly cocktail of arrogance and laziness.
Since the beginning of Senioritis, Month One, I found myself frequently thinking “I really don’t care; I’m a senior” accompanied with a roll of the eyes whenever an unpleasant or undesirable situation arose, such as homework or dress code violations.
“Sorry my disproportionate extremities don’t touch the end of my dress… once I graduate, I’ll never see you again, irritating dress-code nazi.”
Even songs about breaking up sound like an ode to the graduates. (Chris Brown’s “Deuces,” anyone?)
A common enemy of teachers and administrators alike, Senioritis starts with serious REM-cycle sleeping in class, responding “Huh?” to easy questions and glancing at any type of classwork followed by a “Pfft.” It quickly evolves into the blatant ignoring of aforementioned teachers and administrators.
Conversations frequented by complaints of college essays and transcript complications fill the rooms of senior classes as care for little else comes to a standstill.
In Newspaper class, where work ethic is already slower than an arthritic slug, we seniors are more invested in writing personal ads to Mr. Broer’s freshman classes in our pursuit of Homecoming dates than writing articles about school and community matters. (Kelly Williamson and Arielle Emery still need dates, people! Any takers? Anyone?!)
As I wrap up this month’s analysis of the year-long malady, I want to wish my fellow seniors good luck in your attempts to give a damn, and may your naps in class be filled with sweet dreams.
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