From what I’ve gathered from the plentiful number of old Haystack senior goodbyes that I’ve recently been poring over, this is where I should vent about how glad I am to finally be rid of this horrid place, reflect on how I wish I had worked harder in school, and list cliché life lessons that I learned here.

As much as I would like to, however, I cannot honestly conform to this norm, as I haven’t been here long enough to be sick of this school, have always done my best academically, and would rather spend eternity sending the same article through edits than have any meaningless platitudes be published under my name–plus, I’m not sure if I even qualify as a senior. So I apologize for my unorthodoxy, and move on.

While it would be mildly humorous to say that I and the other senior on The Haystack staff who shares my surname have no relation whatsoever, it’s probably for the best to just come right out and say that yes, Nathan and I are brothers. Like him, I grew up in Paraguay, attending public school there in the mornings and homeschooling in the afternoons, and going to American public school in the scattered years we were here. Hence, not being at Wheat Ridge until this year. And no, we’re not twins. Although I did get a few glorious moments this year when someone guessed I was the elder, I’m the second son, and am just graduating this year because I grew up homeschooling with him and, therefore, am a grade ahead of my age.

My first introduction to Wheat Ridge High School was in the pre-season boys’ soccer camp last fall, where scores of players bigger than me (and maybe two or three who were smaller) gave me my first exposure to the kind of language I would be hearing here all year. This was quite a shock to me, both because of the sheer quantity of it that was constantly pouring from their mouths, and also because pretty much the only “French” I had heard in the last four years was in Spanish. I also quickly realized once school had started that it isn’t particularly normal here to be in a senior class when you look like an underclassman, and by the end of the first semester, I had, in the true spirit of teenage conformism, switched my answer to questions about my grade from “yeah, I’m a senior”–sometimes with the qualifying phrase “but I’m sixteen”–to “I’m a junior but I’m graduating early.”

While, as only a semi-senior, I can happily announce that my doctor found no trace of senioritis in my system during my last checkup, I can’t say that I’ve loved all my classes this year–but more on account of their not being as focused, rigorous, and learning-filled as I would have liked them to be, rather than their involving too much work. Many of them have had what, in my mind, is superfluous fluff that takes time away from actual learning. I’ve also been annoyed enough by teacher rants on random subjects that I’ve entertained the idea of buying them all soap-boxes as going-away presents.

Being in newspaper has definitely been one of my favorite parts of my short time here. From my very first, baptism-by-fire story that ended up being removed from The Haystack website for a while because of a controversial quote, to my drawn-out opinion pieces about Halloween, Wikipedia, and token economies in elementary schools, to the number of satire pieces I wrote–and, I’ll have you know, there are few things in this world as simultaneously ridiculous, delightful, and useless as satire–this has proved to be an extremely enjoyable and rewarding class that has shaped me as a writer, thinker, and chocolate chip cookie-baker to an extraordinary degree. And to the dear, affectionate, and good-naturedly blunt Ms. Landon, all I can wish for you is that you fulfill your big dreams of going to court against the district over a controversial article, and winning the lotto.

What else can I say? I will never forget the many, many lunches I sat cross-legged in the band room, deftly balancing the disposable black cafeteria plate on one hand while forking food from it with the other. Or all those days I biked to and from school, trying to keep the bag holding my soccer gear and flute from swaying into my front wheel as it hung on the handlebar, while at the same time doing my best to yell “on your left” in the most apologetic voice possible to pedestrians with their earbuds in and blasting on Crown Hill. Or listening to that same accursed portion of that same accursed classical music album that, like a recurring nightmare, played every day without fail in the library while I was doing homework there. Or trying to flick my shoe free of the urine it had collected when I unwittingly stepped in the large, yellow puddle on the ground in front of a Commons bathroom urinal. Ah, the memories.

And of course, the list could go on. I could talk all I wanted to about Psychology packet questions, FCA devotionals, Hamlet raps, last-minute college apps, concerts, soccer games, fire drills, and many more memorable, if not enjoyable, things I experienced here. Nevertheless, I suppose I’ll leave it at that. To those of you who had the patience to read through all of this, have good lives. And to those who didn’t…well, I guess you missed out.