Flashback. 1993. Thirteen years old and scared beyond belief, I had to go to the highschool. A school that I would start in Grade seven and graduate from at the end of my Senior/OAC/Grade 13 year.
It's no surprise that hanging out here with her insipired a trip down memory lane. We took out, looked at, and poured over our documented existence at the school. It brought back fond memories, and not so fond ones.
Some disbelief, "Did I really look like that?" What the heck was I talking about in my year end message? References to inside jokes, code names for crushes, and complaints about generalized adolescent malaise. It's all there. Some of it easier to understand than others.
Time spent reflecting has led us to one very affirmative conclusion -- Highschool Sucked. But it's over.
The yearbooks have immortalized us in ways we can't beleive -- What was I wearing? Who was I with? I had awful hair back then.
But, we're immortalized.
It's no surprise that hanging out here with her insipired a trip down memory lane. We took out, looked at, and poured over our documented existence at the school. It brought back fond memories, and not so fond ones.
Some disbelief, "Did I really look like that?" What the heck was I talking about in my year end message? References to inside jokes, code names for crushes, and complaints about generalized adolescent malaise. It's all there. Some of it easier to understand than others.
Time spent reflecting has led us to one very affirmative conclusion -- Highschool Sucked. But it's over.
The yearbooks have immortalized us in ways we can't beleive -- What was I wearing? Who was I with? I had awful hair back then.
But, we're immortalized.
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