Rhode Island exists (and other lies)

So we’ve reached the end.

This is inconvenient for the column, since it only exists as a means for me to procrastinate on other work. Even right now, I’m writing this to avoid a paper on how the theorized Sprachkrise of La Belle Epoque Germany manifested itself in German creative endeavors and what those implications were for the outbreak of World War One (Answer: if you’re having an existential crisis, beat the crap out of France and Belgium).

But once classes and exams are done, there lies an insurmountable problem — this column is fueled solely by procrastination. In its world, there are three steps involved in the process:

1)    Procrastinating on studies. This leads me to open up a blank word document to begin the next edition of the column.

2)     Procrastinating on column.

3)    Returning to column, shocked that it hasn’t completed itself in my absence.

Without all the school things I don’t want to be doing — such as writing essays or overhearing Janette from Kamloops bitch about her nailbeds during lecture — this pile of words would never come to life. Inevitably then, it’ll have to take a hiatus from now until next September.

But what I want to discuss today is steps two and three.

See, the delicate balance of “giving my brain some fresh air” and actually putting words on paper intersect at a crossroads located on the bottom floor of the sub. This crossroads defies gravity. It doesn’t limit happy to an hour. It all-around goes to 11. It’s called The Delly and it’s here to rock your world.

The Delly is, and this is objectively true, 500 per cent more important to human well-being than the discovery of penicillin. For every hour this year I spent working on a column, I spent another five hours buying a sandwich, thinking about buying a sandwich, asking what kind of bread they have or eating a sandwich. If anyone deserves my thanks, it’s The Delly.

I love them so much, I tried to sneak this ad into The Ubyssey’s print paper detailing their accomplishments:

That ultimately was nixed by many an editor of our dear paper, but normally the circumstances of my content getting edited out is less about blatant bias parading as an ad. Normally, it’s about this column and our blog and opinions editor, Jack, breaking it to me that “this sentence isn’t funny and also you really should not spend three paragraphs talking about steamed manila clams.”

Between Jack and our copy editor, enough has been edited out of my first drafts to write a sequel to the Communist Manifesto — or at least some elaborate magnet poetry you wouldn’t show your mom. These edits are always warranted, no matter how much I deny it at the time. Once I was told to take out some lines to Diana Ross’ “Love Hangover” that I had just stuck in there for who knows why — it wasn’t really a part of a joke. They were just floating around aimlessly like a clump of cells in Earth’s primordial ooze, waiting for someone to go ahead and invent evolution already.

And finally, one last shout out to the folks who actually read this — all two of you. If I had a third reader, I’m told I could even call this a “fan base.” But as of now, I owe all page views to some guy named Zeke as well as Butter the Cat. Butter the Cat’s name is a bit deceiving because Butter the Cat is neither a cat nor butter, but rather a racing shell for a crew all the way out in “Rhode Island” who somehow got ahold of this serial. Now, I’m not stupid — I know Rhode Island is a conspiracy perpetuated by New York socialites. But it’s nice to know someone’s reading this, even if they’re using a fake identity and location to do so.

Simply put: to The Delly, our blog meistro, and you, who went out of your way to click on whatever link brought you here. Gracias, verily.

So do good things. Don’t do bad things. And see you in September, you two.

 

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