It’s graduation day. It’s everything you expected it to be: (adjective), (adjective) and hot. After (number) long years of hard work, you have earned the right to wear a funny outfit and write “B.A.” or “B.S.” after your name on all official documents.
Looking into the audience, you see your parents and that weird (relative) you didn’t think would come. Oh, there he/she goes, anxiously searching the sky for flying (plural noun), per his/her usual nervous tick. There’s your (adjective) sister, using an issue of (student publication) to fan herself in the heat. And of course your dad forgot sunscreen, so that little bald patch on top of his head is getting some unfortunate solar attention.
You nervously play with your gown while staring out at the waves. Oh, there are (plural noun) jumping out of the ocean! Why doesn’t Pepperdine have its graduation on the beach? Students could have sand castle building contests to win honors. Although castles built in the style of the (questionably constructed campus building at the top of the stairs) probably wouldn’t fare very well against mild sea breezes.
You turn you attention back to the front. Student speakers have lamented the end of (noun) and encouraged the class with promises of (adjective) futures. Lester Holt gives a rousing speech. The best part is when he shares his story about reporting on (country) invading (country). No one saw that one coming. He flashes a few (adjective) smiles before exiting the stage.
Before you know it, students are called to line up. Rather than listening to the Canon in D serenade you on your walk, you decide to softly sing (song). You think you are being quiet, but the person behind you picks up the tune, and before you know it you are both belting out (musical artist) on your way to receive your diploma.
You go so far as to throw in some hip shaking, and suddenly you trip over a (object) in the grass in front of the stage steps. The entire crowd exclaims, “(exclamation)!” as you pick yourself up and readjust your graduation cap.
Undaunted, you walk (adverb) up the stairs and step carefully onto the stage. Years of on-campus hikes have taught you how to gracefully maneuver these steps. You feel the wind in your gown and the sunshine on your face.
At the end of stage is President Andrew K. Benton, standing tall like (movie character), waiting to (verb) your hand. He looks so friendly, but you fear on the other side of his handshake lies a world of uncertainty outside Malibu’s protective borders. When his palm meets yours, he congratulates you by name, and the handshake is not the death grip you’ve feared, but a warm welcome to the other side of the stage, where there are no Caf points and far fewer free T-shirts, but also a far more regular sleep schedule. Oh look, more (plural noun) are jumping out of the ocean. It’s like they’re celebrating your regular sleep schedule.
With all that behind you, you walk back to your (noun), this time keeping your humming to yourself. You think back on the lessons you learned, reading (book) in Great Books, working through roommate issues and writing quickly under the pressure of procrastination. After all, that senior thesis on (paper topic) put up a pretty good fight. But now you are free to (verb) your own life.
You’ve done it. You’ve graduated. Now you’re a real (noun).
