People, stories will be remembered
Approximately 30 students make up the Saint George's Class of 2003, and most of us have been together since the seventh grade, or even earlier.
Consequently, while we'll probably remember what we learned about integrals, soliloquies, the Zimmerman Telegram, subjunctive verb tenses or the physics behind alpha particle emission, it's our teachers, our stories and our friends that we'll remember most.
After Kyle exclaimed on the first day of school that his chair was “precariously uncomfortable” it was apparent -- even as ingenuous seventh-graders -- that we were an interesting bunch. As young punks, we set all the alarms on our pagers to ring at the same time (during French class), snuck our desks up an inch at a time, stole the television remote, and witnessed an octopus eat a fish.
Over the years, our teachers claim that math has made us “taller, smarter and better looking,” but while I admit we're gorgeous, and no longer take classes in the cow barn, we're not necessarily more mature. Ace Ventura still makes us laugh, and so does the word “poop.” We will always be Madame's “little wretches,” Polar Bears at heart, study-buddies for life, dirty hobos, flower thieves, basketball stars, fans, barbecue-ists, canoe-ers, climbers, musicians, gamblers and actors, who “appreciate a hot Pitt-ster,” tell Cody
to shut up, hijack flying pigs, hit on freshmen, play weird card games, make barnyard noises in the senior lounge, have wordless discussions, have earned -- and lost -- our licenses together, who think “I'm not a playa, I just erode a lot” is funny, wear flip flops in the snow, laugh every time Wes says “Tristan's practically my girlfriend with that hair,” and who “Bow down to the Rumpshaker.”
So, no matter where we end up, what we do, or who we meet, we'll always have these stories to remind us of our past together. Which is lucky, because we might forget “The what?”
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