Susannah Morris

I buried a man this summer. Not a friend, not a relative, but a man convicted of rape and murder and executed by the state of Georgia. I never met him, but somehow in the sweat that drenched my shirt, the ache of my back, and the blisters on my hands I knew we were closer kin than I had thought.

Every senior feels like he or she has the right and/or responsibility to dispense the wisdom gained through four years. I’m no different.

If you’ve been hearing wet, squelchy sounds lately, it’s probably been my motivation retreating down the drain. Yes, graduation is still seven months away, and yes, senioritis has already struck.