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Monday Monday unmasked

satire

Boy. Phew.

What a semester it’s been, folks. 

I’m Monday Monday. I’m the Chronicle’s anonymous satirical columnist. I’m like if the Fluke had parents who loved it. Together, we’ve tackled the pandemic, Price’s empty platitudes about BLM, Greek Life’s toxicity, the C1’s newly neutered capacity, our school’s rank, everybody’s constantly declining mental health, the 2020 election, and Greek Life’s toxicity again for good measure.

I even wrote one column that wasn’t published because it was deemed too edgy for The Chronicle. 

In fairness, the higher-ups at the Chron have been largely tolerant of my absurdity, even allowing me to publish a column that was literally just the word “vote” repeated 1,000 times on the actual day before the election.

I like to think I made a difference.

I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished as Monday Monday. I really shouldn’t be, but I am. I published almost every week, which wasn’t difficult because there was constantly insane shit happening the entire time and everything was unceasingly, actively on fire. Seriously. This was the easiest semester of all time to have this job. I just took the actual headlines and added crying-laughing emojis next to them. These babies practically write themselves. 

My column about Il Forno cutting ties with Duke was, apparently, at least for a time, the most viewed article this entire semester. Like, in the entire Chronicle. Eat your heart out, Library Takeout. I blame the parent’s Facebook page. Those guys are always sharing my columns and laughing, as they should, about how all us students are squirming and writhing through this sadistically overseen simulation. Duke parents, you are my most loyal fans, and I love you unconditionally. I write for you and no one else. Well, you and the old people who don’t realize that these are satire. 

This year has sucked. Both globally, and, more importantly, for me personally. But this job; this unpaid job that I can’t put on my resume and that I dedicate hours and hours to every week with little-to-no external validation in return, has been a tiny reprieve from the ongoing trauma of being a college student in 2020. I hope that in the unlikely scenario in which you’ve read one or two of my columns and in the even more unlikely scenario in which they have made you mildly chuckle or exhale sharply through your nostrils, they’ve brought you fleeting, momentary comfort as well. 

It’s been an honor to serve as your plague jester. But I’m tired. I’m ready to hang up the proverbial mascot costume. It stinks in here. And I think the last guy vomited through the eye holes. 

Thanks to Mihir for being not just an airtight editor but a stellar creative collaborator. Thanks to my parents for raising me on good comedy and for reading these every week. Thanks to all the subjects I’ve satirized for being good sports. Thanks to everyone who’s provided honest unflinching feedback and to everyone who’s offered unconditional praise regardless of actual quality. I need both. Thanks, most importantly, to you, for reading, and therefore pouring gasoline into this dumpster fire. 

I’m Tallman Trask’s secret bastard daughter, and I’ve been your Monday Monday.

No. Wait.

I’m the guy who painted that painting that got removed from Keohane, and I’ve been—

No, no. That doesn’t feel right either. 

Eh, I guess we’ll just have to wait a little longer. 

Monday Monday isn’t actually ready to unmask themself quite yet. They’ll be back next semester. Same anonymous student, more unhinged than ever. 

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