“Webster’s Dictionary defines—”
My cursor stopped there. This wasn’t a freakin’ glossary, and certainly no class president speech: this was a joke.
I leaned back in my chair and thought about the last couple of months. Me, becoming the official school-nominated, in-your-face-suck-it, I’m-smarter-than-you tramp; the one that trolls the hallways of Ivy Leagues, wasn’t part of the Big Plan. You know the one, right? Where the parental units sit you down, pretending to care what you want to do with your life, while secretly filling out an applications for community colleges in North Dakota. It’s like the Birds and the Bees talk, only much more scary because you didn’t learn about all that stuff before-hand from your former ex-best friend’s, Nicole Beckett’s, search history.
No, I’m talking about the Talk where they sit you down on that hideous beige couch (we all have one), that you purposely threw up on when you were eight, to talk about “Your Future” (insert fairy sparkles). I’m talking about the Talk where you either upchuck right there next to the previous stain, or smile, nod, and wait until they’ve gone to sleep to start sobbing all over yourself about the fact that the whole SAT extravaganza is basically waterboarding, just with fill-in-the-blank bubbles. The Talk, where all they ask you is what you want to be when you grow up, and all you want them to say is, “what will make you happy when you grow up?” Because honestly (and this is me being completely blunt here), if we all did everything we wanted, zoologists and actors would be the norm for college majors, while doctors and lawyers would be few and far between.
Anyway the Big Plan Talk was what eventually led me here, sitting in Toni Mendez’s (sort of) ex-boyfriend’s boxer shorts, typing what will probably turn out to be a more inappropriate speech than a drunk GOP state senate announcing that he has been secretly gay for Anderson Cooper, ever since that snow-white dream-boat told the world loud and proud that he likes it in the ass. But anyway, just know that EVERYTHING I am about to tell you—to stall the inevitable, of school-patriotism and kiss-ass[ing]—is (semi-)true, and I had no (credited) role in the events that led me, Amelia Kirk, and Ben Abrams to the 21 and Over Bingo Joint last Tuesday night, because, let’s be honest, that’s what really matters here. (And yet, the question of why I’m still allowed on campus after they found out about all of it, let alone be nominated class president; is a mystery to me). So, I guess to be fair, we should begin with why I have to write this dumb speech (because, to be real, a high school wallflower status was kinda my thing), and say that it all started out with an ill-placed notebook from one Jeremy Foster, a sickeningly-verifiable rumor about a certain Vice Principle Guster, and a little white tube top belonging to the now-debunked, former class president Stacy Walters.

So, here goes….