For those of you that don’t know, things are a changing at VARSITY. That stunning Indian chic from page 5 is the new Editor-in-Chief. The lovely lady beneath me (our trusty copy-ed) has been bumped up to fill this column space as the new Deputy Editor. And as for me, well I’ll be on my way now. So I wrote a poem. (Sorry.) This one goes out to my biggest fan.
Over many years I have had to learn how to play COD (yes, I’m down with the geeky lingo), Super Meat Boy, Portal and Rage, even when my hand was cramping around the Xbox controller and it became a weird claw-like appendix. I’ve been subject to randomised quizzes about who created the first ever first-person shooter (Id, for those who care), and what the acronyms FPS, AFK, IRL, GG and LAN stand for.
The bell rings for break time at a primary school just around the corner. Books and pens fly into the air as girls and boys bullet toward the playground. A game begins. The girls screech and scurry away as the boys run after them with arms outstretched. Once a boy catches a girl he pins her down on the ground and pretends to rape her for 10 to 20 seconds while she screams and writhes, trying to get away.
In “rape rape”, once a girl has been “raped” she is out of the game. The game finishes when every girl has been raped, only to start again next break time.
Exam stress is mounting and your life is feeling more and more like a sad and boring movie about people who die from never leaving the library. The thought of something, anything, to save you from such a fate is not just appealing but seemingly necessary. The little white wonder pill of concentration floats across your mind’s eye like the acorn in Ice Age (you are the squirrel in this scenario) and you see yourself in a field of clouds bounding in slow motion, a dreamy smile stretched across your face, towards the magical pill sitting upon a silver silk cushion. Your problems will soon be over.
Eventually you are so comfortable in this habit that your brain programs itself to operate against the deadline. You have conditioned it to think that it can only function optimally when you burn the midnight oil.
After reading the manifestos for the nine parties expected to come out tops in terms of seats at National Assembly, I was left bored and sad. But mainly bored. After a while all the manifestos started sounding the same. Access to health care this. Quality education that. Stop corruption. Police brutality. Crime. Sickness. Poverty. Sadness.
I’ve known dancers to wrap broken toes in gauze, strap on their pointe shoes (which, by the way, are made of glue and tiny pieces of wood) and perform their Sugar Plum Fairy solo for a sold-out audience. The show must go on, I guess.
And only a few weeks into the position I found myself curled up in a ball on the floor in an undisclosed corridor, rocking slowly (they do it in movies…thought it might help. It didn’t.) while a friend consoled me and tried to make contingency plans in case I died or killed everyone except him in a rampage.