Senioritis: It's Real, Guys.

Senioritis. noun \ˌsē-nyər-ˈī-təs\ : an ebbing of motivation and effort by school seniors as evidenced by tardiness, absences, and lower grades. ( Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

The above definition is a stellar example of the very malady it defines; instead of writing my Biology paper like I'm supposed to, I am looking up the definitions of made-up words. And then writing a blog post about it. Also, I am considering an experiment. What exactly would happen to my A+ average in Biology if I were to take a zero on a paper? The more I think about it, the more it seems like a good idea, for these reasons:

Reason A- With out ever having experienced the consequences of this laziness, I might be more tempted to try this out in a college course. 

Reason B- I have to maintain my final GPA from high school in college to keep my HOPE Scholarship. So really, raising it now can only hurt me, right?

Reason C- (As senioritis comes with a healthy dose of entitlement), shouldn't I get extra credit for conducting an experiment in Science class?

Really, the fact that I even show up in the mornings when I have Independent Study first period is cause for incredible praise. I can study independently just as well, if not better, from the comfort of my own bed. Also, I don't have to wear my constricting, if spiffy-looking uniform there. Also, because of senioritis, I'm not even bothering to restrict my abundant use of the word "also".  

Now I'm running out of motivation to finish this post. But I am working through it--because I hate the tundra. Not really, but I don't want to write a scientific paper on it. Also, we have to draw stuff about our biosphere. Or paste pictures on it. Really, Mr. Beaumont?! Because I can write a darn good paper, but you know I hate art.  

Unfortunately, the sense of pride in being a "good student" that propelled me through our study of Plato last year (I mean, how on earth did something as boring as those essays manage to survive 3000+ years?) is compelling me to write this paper. It will be a good paper, with lots of adjectives and commas, as well as a few semi-colons, and maybe even a colon, depending on how fancy I feel. Also, I will likely not use the word "also" more than once a paragraph. 

Maybe I'll even paste some pictures on scrapbook paper--what now?

I feel I should point out that I have it pretty good here, and I know it--this knowledge is merely blocked out occasionally by senioritis. Because it's a real thing guys.

Sometimes I Freak Out II: A Melt Down on 37th Street

As you may know, for the first 4 months or so of my driving career, I drove my father's 1990 Acura Legend. This car, in my father's eyes, was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To me, this was a vehicle 5 years older than myself, badly in need of some new paint, with an annoying habit of making an awful screechy noise every second time or so it was started. However, I loved it. The Acura (or Acria, depending on which brother of mine you speak to) represented my independence. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted. (As long as I checked with Mom first, and got her permission, and ran any errands she needed done while I was out, all while texting her my location about every 30 second--BUT NOT WHILE DRIVING! I take what I can get.)  I enjoyed myself hugely that summer--driving out to camp with the windows rolled down (a mandatory action as the air conditioning was broken) blaring music from the laptop buckled into the passenger seat (the radio was also broken) and watching out for the stream of water that flowed from the sunroof after heavy rain. It should be noted that we had a thunderstorm almost every afternoon for a month. All that aside, I was perfectly content. Until it started cutting off on me. While I was driving. On roads. Real roads. With other cars. The first time this happened to me, I freaked out. I consider this a fully justified situation. With a few more details, I believe you will too.

I was driving home from youth group, sweating because it seemed inadvisable to drive through the shady part of town with my windows down. Heading towards the scariest stoplight of all, I reluctantly braked as the light turned yellow, and came to a halt just as it turned red. And then disaster struck. The car turned off all by itself. I double checked my door lock, and called Dad. Upon reflection, I have realized that many of our phone conversations follow this basic outline:

M: Daddy, the car is broken.
D: Broken? What's wrong with it?
M: I don't know, it just won't turn on.
D: Well open the hood and--
M: I don't know how to do that.
D: (poorly concealed sigh) *describes how to open the hood*
D: Now wiggle the left battery post--
M: Wait, still opening the hood. Also, what on earth is a battery post?
(For the record, I am still unclear on this issue, but I now know where this mystical piece of machinery is located.)

Only that is a conversation in a place of relative safety, the resolving of a routine inconvenience. This was no such occasion. Instead, our conversation went more like this:

M: Daddy, the car is BROKEN!!!
D: (OBVIOUSLY NOT GRASPING THE GRAVITY OF THE SITUATION)Broken? What's wrong with it?
M: I don't know, it JUST TURNED OFF! WHILE I WAS DRIVING IT!!!
D: Well open the hood and--
M: I don't know how to do that. ALSO, I'M AT 37TH AND WHITAKER, IN THE DARK--GETTING OUT OF THE CAR DOES NOT SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA!
D: (poorly concealed sigh)  You're fine.*describes how to open the hood*
D: Now wiggle the left battery post--
M: Said: (trying not to cry) Wait, still opening the hood. Also, what on earth is a battery post?
M: Thought:Also, I hate cars! Just come and get me! Maybe Uncle Chip would have been a better choice for the phone call! He would already be on his way to get me!

At this point, a wonderful young man pulled over to help me fix the car/wait for my unconcerned father to get his behind in the car and come get me. (BECAUSE 9:00 AT NIGHT IN THE GHETTO IS NO TIME TO TEACH A 17 YEAR OLD GIRL HOW TO FIX A CAR OVER THE PHONE DADDY!!!) This act of chivalry was summed up for me in one sentence. "I saw a little white girl alone in the hood, and thought I'd better stop." Yes, yes you should have. Thank you. I was especially grateful when the drunks at the neighboring gas station started getting loud. Dad arrived, fixed the car in about 32 seconds, and followed me home. I learned how to wiggle the left battery post on a less stressful situation. All was well with the Acria.

Now I am driving a different car, one with both air conditioning and a radio. But it too has problems. The other day it refused to start at Kroger. But (with the help of the first phone conversation) I fixed it. No one was quite as impressed with me as I was, but never mind. I fixed a car, and didn't freak out. Adulthood, here I come.