Dear Reader,

I think it’s time that we sit down and have a chat. The passage of t—- oh, sorry dear reader, I can tell you’ve already got something you want to say but I was hoping you’d let me talk first during this chat. There’s some things I have to get off my chest. Won’t you wait until I’ve said my piece? Here, let me start over.

The passage of time can show great contrast between the start and finish of any journey. The Bunion first arrived at Boston University quite meekly before building a loyal group of followers who whispered its name and its many deeds across campus. Some might say that in this way, there’s a part of The Bunion that is also deeply a part of me as well.

I now st—- wait, hang on, dear reader. What’s that? No, no I’m not trying to say I have an actual bunion. Please let me finish. And stop spreading that rumor. It’s not doing me any favors.

I now stand at the precipice of graduation, looking back at all of the things I’ve accomplished with the help of this publication — which just so happens to bear the name of a foot-borne ailment that I do not actually have — and in the past year, many people have seen me along on my way and said things like “Kevin, you must be so proud of The Bunion!”, and “Are you really the person who created The Bunion?” and “Please take me to the window seat of a coffee shop and hold my hand beneath the table so that I can properly display my affection to you!” I have said yes to all of these things.

But recently, people have been saying different things to me on the street. In the past month, people have said things like “Are you nervous about graduating?”, and “Do you know what’s going to happen to The Bunion after you’re gone?” and “You held my hand so sweetly under the table at that Starbucks just like I asked you to, why did you never call me afterwards?”
I have not known what to say to any of these things.

Regardless of what exactly is said, the faces are the same: painted with poignant disbelief of my imminent departure from Boston University. An unspoken bouquet of disappointment that next year’s iteration of life at BU will be noticeably Kevin Flynn-less. Faces that almost say, “Please don’t go!”

But I say th—- wait, please, dear reader. Don’t interrupt me. Yes, I know it’s been five paragraphs already. Yes, I realize it’s seven including those short one-line paragraphs. I’m going somewhere with this. Please be patient.

But I say that I think you’re all full of shit. Yes, that’s right, dear reader, I don’t buy any of it. Don’t lie to me. You may furrow your brow and grimace at the mention of my exit, but I can sense what you feel deep down just by looking at you. You’re just counting down the seconds until you’re free of my journalistic iron grip.

Go ahead, admit it! What’s wrong, too cowardly to say what you really feel right to my face? Well, since y—- God, hold your tongue, dear reader! That was rhetorical! Don’t actually answer the question, I’m trying to make a point!

Well, since you won’t tell me how you really feel about my eventual leave, it well suits me on the last day of my editorship of this publication to be the vessel of the deep-rooted truth of what people really think of me. I can sense that you all just want to say things like:

“Boo! What’s that, you say? Poor old Kevin Flynn is finally kicking the academic bucket and joining the ranks of the working-class slog? Good riddance, I tell you! The university will be better off without him! Not to mention The Bunion will flourish once it’s free of him, what with all his sour editorial content and bumbling style of leadership! The dumb lout’s gotten a big head ever since they wrote that story in BU Today. Doesn’t he realize that we only liked the article about the girl in the dining hall and we’re just politely putting up with the rest until he leaves?”

“What has he ev—-“ Oh, shut UP, dear reader! Don’t try to contradict the steaming hot truth I’m laying down in front of you! I can see it in your eyes that you’re just dying to say all of these things, so just sit back while I say them for you. Ahem.

“What has he ever done for me, anyway? Nothing, besides throwing a bunch of advertisements in my face for his rotten tabloid and his equally detestable sketch comedy group! What are they called again, ‘Slow Boys at Work’? Who cares, I’ve never even seen them — but oh, how I rue them! I can’t help but count the days until his stupid voice and face are absent from my life and I can finally know respite from his incessant self-promotion. God forbid he invites me yet again to follow him on Twitter at He’s just a leech sucking on the neck of every person he’s ever met.

“And his hair is weird!

“And I also heard that he has a real bunion! Like on his foot! How disgusting! He also sucks at holding hands! No one would ever want to hold his dumb, sweaty hand! And thank the stars, I’m so glad that those hands will never write another stupid article for The Bunion. I hope after he graduates he sits up at night, thinking about the days when he was on top of the world, until he sadly cries out, saying —-“

OH, COME ON, DEAR READER, WHAT IS IT? You’ve been trying to talk over me this entire time! What is it that can’t possibly wait until I’ve finished speaking? Come on, out with it! God forbid I take the time to say all of the things out loud that you’re too afraid to say to me yourself!

…Oh, what’s that? That IS what you were going to say to me? Word for word, you say? Well, alright then. I guess we’re on the same page.

Kevin Flynn
Founder Emeritus

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