Wild for the Night

I walk into the AP English room only to find a black hole of doom sucking my classmates and me into its dark shadows. As we swirl around in the space-time continuum, we collectively decide we have stumbled upon a time-traveling machine. Several images of significant past and future events flash before our eyes before we see Ms. Serensky dancing the Charleston, clad in a black sparkly dress with her short hair in tight curls. Instinctively, I jump out of the vortex to come face-to-face with Ms. Serensky’s dancing partner, Mr. Jay Gatsby. With a smirk on her face and a twinkle in his eye, I understand that Ms. Serensky simply forgot to close the time portal and every day travels back to the Roaring Twenties to visit her soul mate. He introduces himself and greats me with “welcome to my house party” as he takes our hands and drags us to the heart of the carousal: the vod… food. Luckily for us contemporary girls, kale chips remain non-existent at this time so we enjoy REAL food and observe our fellow party guests. We spot mob members and priests, to girls fidgeting with their dresses and women passed out from too much eating (a.k.a. food coma). Jay suggests we enter the dance contest so we make our way over to the disc jockey booth. We agreeably decide on “Three O’Clock in The Morning” by Paul Whiteman. I decide to watch from the fountain as the couple dances circles around everybody else. Suddenly, a ghastly howl crawls out of Ms. Serensky’s mouth as tears stream down her face, smudging her delicate makeup. I run over to check on her just in time to hear her scream “YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO A SENTENCE WITH A PREPOSITION?” In the moment, I realize Jay Gatsby does not hold the key to the world, he holds terrible grammar. Before Ms. Serensky has the opportunity to dropkick him in the jaw, I drag her back to the portal as she yells eloquent profanities to the smoky air behind her. When I go to comfort her, she refutes and mutters something about a blue rebound or something of the sort. I stand fairly certain that Ms. Serensky and I have eaten too much and therefore our thoughts remain fuzzy and fragmented because as soon as we arrive in the classroom, I cannot form words to describe the experience to my frazzled classmates. 

How to become Serensky's Shining Star

 Dear brave student,

Congratulations! I must give you a pat on the back for making the daunting decision to enter the world of an AP English student. Tough times lie ahead but trust me, you will get through the countless essays and you will stand forever grateful that you took on the tasks that no ordinary student ever would. The things you will discuss in this class will range from awkward to serious, from laughable to obscure. Every minute of every day will bring an opportunity to recognize a new potential in yourself or a new light in which to view the world. AP English will teach you how to write an essay in twenty-five minutes, a skill most coveted by any procrastinating college student. So, now that you have made the decision to take on Ms. Serensky’s world, it stands as my job to teach you how to survive in the wild world of AP English.

Step 1:

Take your parents’ credit card to the nearest CVS, Target, or OfficeMax. Buy yourself 100 pens (blue, black, and red), two of the biggest binders you can find (one per semester), and one million sheets of college-ruled paper. You will need to return to the store to buy more paper after the first quarter.

Step 2:

Do some hand and finger exercises. Carpal tunnel remains an unfortunate inevitability for every AP English student. You may as well try to prevent it for as long as possible.

Step 3:

Please, for the love of Mortimer, do the following for the only easy points you will ever receive in this class:

1.     TURN IT IN TO TURNITIN.COM.

2.     TYPE ALL PAPERS IN TIMES NEW ROMAN, FONT SIZE 12 WITH 1” MARGINS, DOUBLE SPACED, AND A HEADER.

3.     DO NOT DOODLE ON YOUR PAPERS.

Step 4:

Run a few miles prior to entering the classroom. The arctic tundra may ironically stand as the first thing to kill you.

Step 5:

If you do not have an intelligent question to ask, do not ask one at all. Think it over in your head and ask yourself “will Ms. Serensky want to hurt me after I let this leave my mouth?” The answer? Probably yes.

Step 6:

Have fun. No other class in the high school allows you so much freedom when it comes to answering a question or talking in a discussion. No other class in the high school will have an open-ended discussion on why you remain alone on the holidays, or how you turn into a monster once a month, or where your opinion lies on tramps named Laurie.

Honestly, there remain many more tips and tricks to survive your years in AP English but I cannot share with you because that would ruin your whole experience. You will laugh and cry and cry of laughter; you will jump for joy and curse the name Elizabeth Strout; but, you will never forget the hard work and time you put forth on your way to finally receive a hug from the one and only, Queen Serensky.

Best wishes,

Dshannon: AP English Extraordinaire.

A Case of THE Bradley Mundays

My parents named me Bradley Munday but most people refer to Brad, B-Mund, or THE football/ track guru. I have always stood as a fan of Mondays (obviously) because they allow me a fresh start to a new week under my motto: “Work hard. Play hard.” You see, most people would call me multi-talented and although I consider myself humble, I cannot disagree. During the week, you can find me working on homework from one of my many AP classes in which I thrive. Calculus BC? Please, the limit never exists for Bradley Munday. Chemistry? Call me Dmitri Mendeleev. Computer Science? I speak java in my sleep. English? Well… uh… I… you see… Jon and Laurie… and yeah… Olive, too… I think… pathos. Trust me, you cannot and will not stop my academic grind. I carry out my intensity all the way until I reach the front of the line on Pasta Wednesday. I mean, jeez Megan, THAT’S how you make pasta. *Insert the B-Mund head shake here* After school, I book it to the holy football locker room to get myself amped for another three-hour practice at Harris Stadium: my home away from home. Man, the memories I have made with my friends, no, brothers will carry me throughout the rest of my life. Seriously. After scoring an average of six touchdowns a game with the help of my baby bro, Michael, I talk to my many adoring fans (mostly girls) and head to the hottest social scene to get my groove on. You could call me the greatest dancer alive or you could not. But the latter would make you wrong and a wrong answer deserves an extra long head shake. Look up “Harlem Shake CFHS AP Chemistry” and watch me head-BOB across the camera. (Notice the difference between the head shake and the head-bob). So many talents, so few people to share them with, which remains why I chose to attend The Johns Hopkins University in the fall of 2013. There, I can put those wannabe intellectual peasants in their places and wreak havoc on the gridiron with my dude, Soup. Everyone wants to live a day in the life of Bradley Munday, the big man on campus, as Mr. Maas would say. One day, you will all regret laughing at me when I stand ruling the world with a new Spain t-shirt on my back and my long-long-term girlfriend, Megan Stricker, on my arm. God, those memories with my football boys… awesome. 

Bow Down to the Queen

In a matter of weeks, we, the class of 2013, will move adventurously on toward the future leaving the names we have made for ourselves at Chagrin Falls behind. Some of us anxiously wait for the moment when we can throw our embarrassing titles out the window (for the record, I passed my driver’s test on the first try… flawlessly); some of us deservingly hold on to the auspicious titles given to us by our classmates (Blythe- we all hate you. YOU KNOW WHY).  For me, I find that I have made several names for myself during my years here, both good and bad. Life of the Party: awarded by classmates, frowned upon by Ms. Serensky. Worst Driver: one time. One time I hit Andrew Osgood. One time. Token Asian: the Chinese take over America? *hint hint* Totally a real thing. Dshannon: self-explanatory (for those who do not see the explanation in itself: I kill slave owners with a German dentist in my spare time).These names have given me a run for my money, but I stand ready to move on and show my true colors. We all have labels, whether we like it or not; however, as we move forward, college provides us with plenty of papers on which we may signature a new name. Mine? Queen of the Nerds. Who needs to party with Greek Row when a perfectly good marathon of The Lord of the Rings coaxes you to stay in your cozy 10-by-10 dorm all weekend? Truly, I have a flare for the supernatural, an obsession with magic, an addiction to re-reading the Harry Potter series, and an unhealthy craving to win a national LARPing tournament. As college stands as the opportune moment to spread my wings and fly, I plan to join the Squirrel Watching Club along with a plethora of other unusual clubs to establish my dominant presence on campus. I want my future classmates to view me this way because I have hidden this side of myself for far too long and I fear that if I keep it down any longer, I will face unfortunate victimization under the Dissociative Identity Disorder. Perhaps I will cheer up my stressed classmates with a Spock sign as they walk to class as I often feel that a simple solute to my home planet will put a smile on anyone’s face. I firmly consider the obviously truth that showing your true self to others will draw them toward you. I also hope that this new name will encourage me to study harder and work more diligently in academics as I may finally get the compliment of “you work TOO hard.” I believe that those habits will happily juxtapose those of my current status as I fail to do most of my homework (excluding English, of course) until the due date. I find myself restless with excitement for the debut of the new and arguably improved Shannon Fung. Just wait until our ten-year reunion when I promise, I shall make my entrance on a glimmering Segway with a robot boyfriend on my arm. 

No Leo? No Go.

“Dear Ms. Serensky,

My boyfriend wants to break up, but I do not. Help me!

Sincerely, Desperate & Confused”

Dear Desperate & Confused,

Look, honey, you need to listen to the directions of life: Wash your hands thoroughly until you have wiped yourself clean of all germs. Your boyfriend stands as the flu-carrying germ in your life. No one begs to get the flu unless they hold a serious mental derangement. Do you hold said problem? I sincerely hope not, and I shall continue on in my advice as if you do not. You need to make a clean break from this indolent caveman and move on with your life. Why would you ever want to attach yourself to someone who clearly does not care about your life, interests, or aspirations? I mean unless your current love interest stands as Leonardo DiCaprio, I see no benefit in keeping a relationship sinking faster than the RMS Titanic. Pun totally intended. (*Side note* If this boyfriend does go by the name of Leonardo Dicaprio and he acts in many movies, my previous advice cannot reign as applicable or useful in any way, shape, or form. Hold on to that man for as long as possible. Do not let go. Ever.) I can tell that you hold great potential to flourish, individually, into an awesome and independent person. Do not let one person in a world of seven billion hold you back- that would fall under the category of “pitifully stupid.” So, with my expert advice, I suggest that you dump the fool first, and work on finding a real man who will buy you tampons when you need them. Study diligently and become the valedictorian to show him who runs the world (the answer: girls). Work hard and become the most well-respected employee of your work place to teach him how to fear power. Break a sweat at Zumba to make him regret ever wanting to leave a sizzler like you. If you find yourself needing more advice on this topic, I implore you to dive into He’s Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. They should definitely help sort some things out for you mentally. Good luck and remember if you ever find yourself in a sticky situation, ask yourself: “What Would Bobbie Jo Do?”

Sincerely, Ms. Serensky. 

Dshannon Unchained

You can call me Shannon… or you can call me Movie Buff the Cinephile, Fiend for Film. Yes, I quite like that. The search for entertainment in my life habitually ends when I log onto Netflix, flip to Movies on Demand, or drive myself to the theatre. Do I re-watch a classic or do I adventure into a new director’s world? No matter what I choose, I always find myself fully engaged in the actors, script, and direction. Ryan Gosling chick-flicks? Yes. Harry Potter enchantments? Absolutely. Oscar-worthy movie-to-book adaptations? The more the merrier. Japanese anime? Well, eh, not so much; but, hey, I cannot stand as one to judge. Recently, my passion has turned 180 degrees from romantic comedies to gore- unedited, immoral, cut-through-the-bone gore. And where else does one turn to quench their bloody thirst other than the one and only Quentin Tarantino, director of my new chart-topping favorite, “Django Unchained.” First of all, dang! Tarantino’s mastermind somehow takes such a dark part of American history, puts a dramatic spin on it, and turns it into a story of love, determination, and yes, murder. From start to finish, the 180-minute movie captured me with its unexpected humor yet emotionally daunting character development. Jamie Foxx, Christopher Waltz, and Leonardo DiCaprio take on the main stage among a star-studded cast and nail their transformation into characters of the Deep South in an era of unjustified slavery and conflict beyond one’s wildest imagination. Tarantino takes on a new level of ambition as he creates a sadistic tone and pushes the effects profanely over the top. Blood spews uncontrollably every time someone receives a gunshot wound as if they hold no bones in their body. Yes, unrealistic as it may seem, the deranged yet lovable director themes this masterpiece off of revenge and disregards a flare for the practical. I love it. Only Tarantino can handle this level of irony and violence in one film and still have the ability to make every moment tense and unpredictable for the audience. I warn, “Django Unchained” may arouse great discomfort in some due to its use of language and heavy sadistic attitude toward a touchy mistake in our nation’s past; however, I encourage those mentioned to look past the sometimes politically incorrect script and see the movie for what it truly remains: a fun, thrilling, over-the-top adventure meant for enjoyment, not political debate. 

"Django. The D is silent." 

Say "Cheese"

I walked into the unfamiliar room to meet the man I only knew through email;

He greeted me with a sly grin as a single bead of sweat ran down his messy brow.

He instructed me to change into my “special outfit” as he slowly sipped his ginger ale.

Nervous, I obeyed. It must happen now.

The man, twice my age, led me to a single chair,

Demonstrating the position in which the light would perfectly catch my face.

I followed his exhibition and faked a smile as he handed me an orange teddy bear.

Lights flashing I knew- my daunting and awkward task I must brace.

Boy, I do hope my senior picture turns out well,

The thought of returning to Ripcho Studios makes me want to yell.

Initially, I found great difficulty in creating an awkward topic to share with my fellow AP English students. Surprising, I know, as some people would call me the most awkward person alive. However, I believe that any of my peers can relate to the discomfort aroused by taking senior pictures. My description of my photographer evokes great anxiety from the audience as I make him sound almost pedophilic: “sly grin” (2). The mysterious diction of “sly” creates unpredictability for his intentions especially as I directly characterize him as “twice my age” (5). As the man stands much older than me, the email conversations suddenly become problematic and totally inappropriate (1). Furthermore, for anyone as addicted to looking at awkward family photos as me, the teddy bear in line eight only heightens the uncomfortable task of posing in odd positions for a yearbook photo. Sitting backwards on a chair stands as one of many distorted and strange poses that my photographer instructed me to do. All in all, I find the whole process of taking pictures uncomfortable for every party present. I say we ditch the cameras and start taking mental images. John Mayer seems to think it a good idea as well. 

Howdy there, Pikachu. How you doin'?

A Blast from the Past

Dear eleven-year-old Shan,

When you open this letter, I would like you to find a nice, quiet room to read it in as it contains heavy criticism of your past and top-notch advice for your future. I write to you with nostalgia and regret. I miss the innocence that came along with the fifth grade life and at the same time, I feel such shame in my addiction to Webkinz and the recorder. Let us begin with a reflection of your past thus far. You have ratted out friends to Mr. Bondy for taking the possessions of their first love when you attempted the same thing. You have promised, but not executed, the entire Intermediate School population an extra pizza line to reduce waiting time. And finally, you have shown up to CAA basketball tryouts in a tight-fitted Abercrombie shirt. How do you feel about yourself, your life, and your poor decisions? I can tell you how it feels right now: embarrassing, degrading, and criminal- as criminal as wearing jeans skiing. First piece of advice: DO NOT PULL THOSE KIND OF STUNTS EVER AGAIN. They will haunt you and your friends will hold it over your head, forever. Yet, I cannot say you have completely messed up your life this far… Keep up the good work with finally learning how to spell you own middle name. Pat on the back for the astounding accomplishment, kid. I can already tell you will make it far. I could tell you that things get better from here, but they do not and I would hate to lie to myself. Next year you will proceed through a preppy phase in your dress game. Four out of five days in the week, you will wake up and layer three collared shirts on top of each other, “pop” the collar, and throw your hair into two slicked back ponytails. Not months after, you will change your mind and go for the Hot Topic sweatshirt that reads “PUNK! ROCK! REBEL!” in black and blue. Like any other teen in angst, your attitude will influence your outward appearance and however “depressed” or “Hannah Montana-y” you feel, one day you will look back and laugh at yourself. Rock out to Red Jump Suit Apparatus and cry to the Jonas Brother’s soundtrack- do not let anyone dictate your life or tell you that you have to fit into a certain mold. So concludes my second piece of advice: make yourself happy and stay comfortable in your own skin, no matter how ridiculous you may look or sound- you rock. Yes, I semi-respect you as an eleven-year-old but you should also notice a certain air that surrounds this letter. Soon you will understand my constant tone of condescension and identify yourself as one of the most sarcastic people you know. Many frown upon sarcasm but like me, you will use sarcasm in 98% of your conversation and laugh at your own jokes… everyday… shamelessly. If you can find humor in the darkest of days, I have faith in you and all of your abilities. Everything seems like the end of the world during the next few years but listen to my final shred of advice: take a nap, drink some tea, blink your eyes and no one will remember yesterday’s petty gossip. The road ahead looks treacherous and winding, but after middle school (I hate to break it to you- it sucks) it gets better day-by-day so keep your head held high.

Love always,

Eighteen-year-old you.

P.S. A last piece of awesome advice: invent a robotic personal assistant program, name it “Siri,” and sell the idea for billions of dollars to Steve Jobs of the Apple Company. You are very welcome. 

In Need of a Second Hand

            Like any other day on the job, I could not tell what today had in store for me. As a C.I.A. agent, weeks of daunting missions and dangers tasks were promised to me by the never-ending war. Three years had passed since the Martians unleashed havoc on the United States for no apparent reason. One minute we sat with pounding hearts waiting for the announcement of Earth’s Next Top Model, now we sit with pounding hearts waiting to hear that Earth still stands.

            Government officials from every country gathered together after the first attack and decided that sending us to space would maximize the human race’s probability of surviving the nuclear attacks. The further we drifted into space, the further food prices skyrocketed, literally. So, I soon found myself in the most undesirable occupation available: weapon disarmer. Everyday, a new Martian weapon crossed my path, waiting to spew out alien poison, or the blood of a fallen soldier. I had seen it all and I had stopped it all as the only remaining disarmer in the shuttle.

            When the emergency alarm sounded, I had forgotten what it meant because of the minimal performance it played in my life thus far. I found myself running to the laboratory to find a frantic lieutenant screaming about a ticking package on my desk. Upon scanning the mysterious object, I began my diligent work and kicked the distracting man out of the room. Pulling, cutting, and rewiring the fuses, I felt no worry in my impeccable performance. Yet, as time wore on I found myself entangled with more and more wires until I realized what I had created: the weapon to inflict inevitable termination of the universe.

            I needed a second hand to fix the mess I had made but I stood alone. No one could hear me; no one knew to come to my rescue. The end had come by my careless hands.

            BOOM!

The second hand danced along the surface of the clock as the alarm clock buzzed. A sigh of relief brushed past my lips: “time to wake up.”

                                       

Destroyed by the Bell

I awake to two sounds every morning: the sound of my mother furiously thundering, “SHANNON,” at the top of her lungs, and the ringing of the tornado sirens that I have somehow managed to sleep through… again. At this point in the school year, checking the time only slows me down because, as usual, the clock reads 7:10 and I have twenty minutes (accounting for ten minutes of travel time) to get ready, eat breakfast, and hop on the racetrack to school. As I peer into my closet, I see emptiness slightly masked by a few scattered hangers grasping the bare shelves of the forgotten wardrobe. I have to sport the torn leggings and mustard-stained flannel yet again. Then, I undergo my typical beauty routine (if I can even call it that): scrub my face half-heartedly, brush my teeth unenthusiastically, and stroke my eyelashes with a single swoop of mascara quite hastily. In the cloud of darkness that shrouds my hallway, I trip over the slippery wall my parents refer to as “stairs” and tumble down into the kitchen where a piece of toast on fire finds its way into my hands. My mother kicks me out of the warm house with no jacket and no concern for the inevitability of me catching the deadly cold in the desolate air of Cleveland, Ohio. I now have ten minutes to get to school in order to make the late bell but alas, I have lost sight of the roads under a heavy covering of glistening snow. “Here goes nothing,” I reassure myself. To set the tone of the following ten minutes, I play my “Crap, I’m Going to be Late” playlist and rev my engine a few times at the neighborhood animals and anyone else who happens to watch me from beyond their drawn curtains to show them that yes, I do mean business. I swerve out of my driveway and immediately hit a patch of black ice as I exit the neighborhood. Suddenly, my head is turning as the car spins round and round, far beyond the left-of-center line. This continues for several seconds and the car begins to flip until a nativity scene stops the force of my five-ton car. Shoot, I hope that does not come back to bite me one day. I reach out of my shattered window to knock three times on the adjacent Pine. Superstition never ceases to take priority in my mind. I carefully back out of the yard making a mental reminder to write them a formal apology during Psychology class. Continuing down Miles Road at a steady 95 miles per hour, I just barely make the stoplight as it fades from a tempting yellow to a dangerous red. As I run through three consecutive stop signs, I see flashes of our nation’s colors in my rearview mirror: the cops. Pfft. Some justice system we have where abiding by the law reigns over getting to school on time. With only five minutes to reach my destination, I make the executive decision to evade the law and continue my merry way through town. Yet, a case of bad timing strikes me again as I see the line into school piling up miles deep. With no time to spare, I drive over the patiently waiting cars in line, careful to throw my trash out the window to reduce the amount of weight crushing my peers. As I approach the front of the line, I spy the source of the traffic jam: a 2001 Toyota transporting an old man with the audacity to block others from turning right on red into the school. I park my car on the decrepit man’s trunk, hop out of my monster truck, and look him straight in the eyes as I say, “time to have your day ruined.” With justice on my mind, I drag my keys across the fresh paint job and take a crow bar to the windshield. Satisfied, I climb back into the car and race at 45 miles per hour above the school zone limit and create my own parking spot directly on the lawn of the outside common area. The policeman, who apparently recruited an army to capture me, surrounds my car; yet, I bounce off of the belly of a donut-loving cop and find myself sticking the landing safely in the foyer. YES! I ARRIVED ON *ding ding ding.* “Late again, Miss Fung. Detention after school,” taunts Mr. Kirk. How sadly anticlimactic.

            

Thespian-Lovers Rock at Blogging

As I prepare to take on the coveted title of “Second-Semester Senior,” I look back on my past years of high school quite fondly. Thinking about both the good and the bad times, thankful cannot accurately describe what I feel toward my fellow seniors. They have struggled with me in school, worked hard with me on the field, and celebrated the excitement of our hard work shown through the multitude of college acceptance letters currently circulating the community. Chagrin Falls has brought us together through the traditions of the Pumpkin Roll, the Zoo, and Blossom; however, I must thank Ms. Serensky for bringing a select group of the senior class together through AP English 12. To my fellow thespian-lovers and literary-questioners, I feel a special connection to all of you for accompanying me on an adventure through Strout’s depressing stories to a general disappointment of a delayed Gatsby film. Most importantly, AP English 12 has shown me a side of all of you that I never would have seen without reading the weekly blog posts. The blogs connect our commonalities in embarrassing awkwardness, random happiness, and frustrated questioning of life. As we each share our stories and secrets week by week, I grow more and more confident that this blog project has kept me from wishing for the end of high school and the start of a new life. Blogging has also provided me with a newfound confidence in my writing that hid from me in the past. I believe my “most well-written” blog stands as “Shannon Plus Dedication Equals Nine.” For one thing, I nailed the punctuation and I only let myself show arrogance because one could habitually classify my grammar as subpar. This blog represents my long awaited acceptance into the group of students who do not lose a plethora of points for leaving out commas. I also feel that this piece of writing does a good job of highlighting the juxtaposition of my siblings to me, an intended effect to aid the characterization of myself as ambitious and thirsty for literary blood. I believe that this thirst created a humorous anecdote about true events in my life, making it relatable to my readers (except for Ms. Serensky because Valedictorians do not have to compete with their incompetent siblings). On a different note, I believe my most interesting blog serves as “Reaping the Rewards of Redemption.” First of all, what an awesome alliteration. It begins with a single word “redemption.” POW! I felt that the simplicity brought a dramatic tone to my piece about the intensity of extra credit in English class. I believe this blog sparks interest in my readers because I give an honest look into my imperfect life in both Corn Hole and AP English 12. I admit my flaws shamelessly and accept that a little boost never hurt anybody. I enjoy this blog the most because I broke out of my blogging shell to produce something funny that does not analyze a piece of old literature. I do not always post hilarious blogs, but when I do, they generally involve my awkward and embarrassing life. Many of my peers have made comments on the tales of my uncomfortable life, including Kate Mackin. Kate chose to comment on “Shannon Plus Dedication Equals Nine,” the piece about my determination to live up to the standards set by my intelligent siblings. She chose to metaphorically push me down a sewer and leave me their to cry in my shame of imperfection by admitting that my post brought her no sympathy but did make her appreciate her foiled role as the eldest, most prosperous sibling. Well Kate, I would like to congratulate on your perfect, no-stress life. Only joking! Your comment actually made me appreciate my role in the family as well. Both of us have different statuses within our families but I must say that we both turned out pretty well, definitely better and cooler than our siblings, at least. In these comments, blogs, and my own writing, I have learned more about myself and my peers than I have through simple interactions in the classroom environment. Each AP English 12 student shows amazing talent and promise for the future. I look forward to reading more blogs in the future but for now, my fellow seniors, enjoy your auspicious title as a second-semester senior!