(June 11, 2010) — It’s over. Not, “is it over yet?” or “I’m so ready for it to be over”; just “it’s over” – high school at least. Whether we want it to be or not. Now for the memories we convinced ourselves we would dispose of the second that diploma was firmly gripped in sweaty palms from excitement and anticipation of real “adult” life. Step one, removal and torching of all somewhat uniform items, including but not limited to: neon itchy collared polo shirts, Docker style pockets must touch your skin from the inside of your pantalones (translation: pants; see I was paying attention Señora Melville), and the oh-so-wonderful drabby washed out single-tone sweatshirts pulled over the back sides of skin-tight magically transformed legging pants. Step two, attacking of the yearbook and scribbling all over in-multi colored Sharpies in order to compensate for all physical contact that will disappear in the near future and feeling a little dizzy from all permanent marker fume inhalation. Step three, pretending to love people you don’t. Hugging all enemies and adversaries: teacher, administrative member or fellow Clark prisoner, then madly running away before they ask for a kiss. Step four, telling Mr. Blattner that potential is not in any way related to or limited by his French fry poster and that you are going to rule the world as soon as the four-year incarceration sentence is served. Step five, smiling for the cameras and measuring once and cutting twice. Thank you for bearing the rantings of one incredibly unstable escapee.