It turns out I do occasionally do more than write shity summaries of ideas, in this case I begin to develop the sketch below. No editing tho.

Fuck these girls.
These girls who cry because high school is over.
Fuck these girls who mourn the passing
of a rotten fucking blight on our young lives.

No one suspected Kathleen Wyzinski was silently composing what read something like the note the police might find scrawled on the inside of the back cover of an AP Calc textbook in the locker of that pimply kid who tried to knife the Salutatorian Prom Queen just as “Pomp and Circumstance” began to sound from the chapel organ and the graduating mothers sounded their whimpering noses like trumpets and trombones and the babies all whined like detuned violins--

“Hey yo, Kathleen, what the hell are you waiting for?”

Kathleen had closed her eyes, something she did when she was narrating, something she did to force herself to be more evocative, more precise, and had failed to notice that Darlene Vulvankawitz already had a 15 meter head start on her, more than double the rehearsed distance. She could see Eddie Z.’s sweaty mother, face a mess with tears and snot and sweat and makeup that had congealed to a paste, glaring at poor Kathleen as she, Mrs. Z., waited impatiently to snap a picture of Eddie’s impossibly non-photogenic mug as he ambled past her on his way to receive the diploma his father’s donations had earned him.

“Seriously K, MOVE IT!” Eddie hissed and poked her sharply with his knuckle like a prepubescent man-child.

Kathleen lurched forward into the chapel, lacking all the grace that after 15 years of classical ballet, should pretty much at this point have been toxically burned deep into her muscles. Her muscles however were tight and agitated and wholly ungraceful about one-hundred percent of the time outside of the studio or off of the stage. She had contracted like a turtle upon hearing Eddie’s awful voice, attempting to collapse all of her atoms upon themselves so that she might condense and cease to exist or at the very least, become non-reflective.

However there she was, tall and wobbly on silly shoes, teetering down the long isle toward the alter, the most unholy of alters, decorated with living icons from four years of an existence marked by an ever-increasing devotion to hermitdom.