Bexistentialism, once a self-indulgent space for a carefree self, has become a very painful weekly experience. I muse over the interesting events of the week, realise there are none, and then proceed to frown and rub my temples. I got so caught up in the thrill of my return, I forgot to wave around the heavy disclaimer that I am a finalist. An important disclaimer, for being a finalist means fear, misery, and actually being awake in time to see the scout in the morning every now and then.
However, thanks be Lord and Lady of Fate, this week I actually did something relatively interesting. No, really! I didn’t anticipate it either. Last night I found myself in an intimate antechamber of the Union, interviewing David Hasselhoff. “Hurrah”, you may be thinking, “something actually interesting to read about”. You would, of course, be wrong. Because, despite the joy that writing an actually interesting Bexistentialism may bring, I can’t talk about it. I have to save that slice of salvation for another article. So what does one do, when they can’t talk about the only interesting thing that happened in their week? There are two options. Either I keep talking inanely until I reach a word count that is passably adequate, or I fill the space with something suitably miserable from a time gone by.
Naturally I chose the miserable. And so I rummage through my desk drawers to find the collection of pretentious notepads I possess, and flip back to my first year days. I turned the page and it struck me. There it was. That nugget of self-deprecating despair. As I reread the miserably poor attempt at poetry, I could see myself, two years ago, sitting on the cramped but sustainably exciting balcony of my first year room, staring down at the college gym. Don’t worry, it’s short:
Bitch on the Treadmill
As I sit, stationary,
Sipping cider on the balcony,
I watch the bitch on the treadmill.
The bitch who looks like she’d kill
The bitch who gets her fill
The bitch, the bitch,
Who doesn’t lie dormant
Like a lazy c*nt