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Wednesday, April 17, 2024
The Observer

A question for a simp

Oh, it feels so good to be back. Did you miss me? Because I have missed you, cherished Observer readers. It's been 9 months since I graduated from Notre Dame and you, my previously captive audience, were released from the grips of my enthralling sports coverage and scathing hot takes. But now, I have been issued a summons. The recent publication of a certain Letter to the Editor, "A whisper of a thrill," has exerted a gravitational force not unlike a supermassive black hole, pulling this once proud physics major back into the fold of his glory days. It is this monumental distortion in the fabric of The Observer's space-time publication schedule that has me pondering a single question of the author: What was this simp on when he wrote that, and where can I get some? In case you didn’t self-aggrandize your burly-embracing, mahogany-eyed self enough already, I guess congratulations are in order? Like, we get it, bro. You broke parietals. Sick. Way to flaunt your sin in the face of all of us pure-hearted current and former domers who — whether because of conscious choice or for lack of an amorous accomplice — upheld the sanctity of our incredibly fragile sexual and emotional chastities by refusing to violate the 11th Commandment: “Thou shalt not engage in boy-girl slumber parties during the witching hours.” Seriously, dude, you couldn’t have just walked around the lakes holding hands? Maybe just shared a kiss under the Lyons arch? Hell, even a ring by spring would’ve been appropriate. But nope. Instead you have to give me flashbacks to the second weekend of my freshman year when I was awoken to discover my roommate had brought a girl back to the room post-parietals without doing the courtesy of kicking me out. (The details of what happened that night are between me, God and Zahm House’s stuffed moose, Ignats, who I slept under on the basement couch after seizing a chance to slip out). Furthermore, you are now setting an unrealistically high standard. No other dude at Notre Dame is ever going to be able to match the level of this romantic gesture. None will ever be able to duplicate the fairy-taleness of getting a highlight reel of their post-intercourse doting published in The Observer. All those budding ND Marriage Pact relationships are now bound to fail because you, my friend, have set the bar too high. I hope you’re proud. But allow me to equivocate. Maybe I’m not being fair. Perhaps you and your companion didn’t, to use Iago’s words, make “the beast with two backs.” Maybe you just emulated Joe Biden, sniffing her hair and nibbling her fingers until you fell asleep, dreaming of that moment when you would awake to continue your clean, wholesome, good ol’ fashioned Catholic intimacy. I’m sorry if I assumed incorrectly. You know what they say about assuming: it makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me,” kind of like how airing out your dirty laundry (or should I say bed sheets?) for the entire tri-campus to see makes an ass out of you and the poor souls unable to avert their eyes from the catastrophe before them. Let’s all just thank our lucky stars Erin Hoffmann Harding isn’t still at Notre Dame. If she managed to (unilaterally or collaboratively) get an entire dorm disbanded for reasons that have not entirely been disclosed to the public, just imagine how she would feel her hand was being forced by such flagrant disobedience of du Lac. Finally, allow me to offer two pieces of parting advice to this pretentious prophet of passion. First, mind that “intoxicating prescription” thing you have going on (but again, hmu with whatever gave you the confidence to put that in print). And second, in the future, either go big or go home. I’m not entirely opposed to getting my fanfiction from The Observer, but you gotta make it worth my time; otherwise, keep it between the sheets.

Happily contributing to the discourse of this reincarnation of "The leggings problem,”

Hayden Adams

class of 2021

Feb. 17

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.