Dear Interim Tag,
I write to you today, not as a casual observer, but as a fervent, emotionally invested participant in the grand drama of collegiate athletics. While I understand, intellectually, your perceived necessity – a placeholder, a temporary designation, a bureaucratic ellipsis in the sentence of a coaching career – I must confess, your very existence has become a source of profound existential vexation. You hover, a spectral handbrake on progress, perpetually delaying the full embrace of destiny.
For too long, you have loomed, a linguistic purgatory, over countless promising individuals. Dwan McMillan, a man of evident talent and dedication, finally had your spectral grip removed by Wagner. A moment of triumph, yes, but why was it necessary for you to be there in the first place? Do you delight in the suspense? Do you cackle maniacally as general managers and athletic directors pace their offices, deliberating your removal, or worse, your stubborn refusal to depart? Are you some kind of cosmic gatekeeper, demanding proof of worth beyond the mere act of performing the job?
I picture you, Interim Tag, in a dusty, windowless office somewhere, perhaps sipping lukewarm instant coffee from a chipped mug, meticulously adding or subtracting hyphens from unsuspecting job titles. Do you have a small, sad personal life? Do your parents lament your transient nature? "Oh, our little Interim," they might sigh, "always a bridesmaid, never a bride-worthy suffix." Your very hyphenated nature is a testament to your indecisiveness, a typographical shrug. You are the grammatical equivalent of a commitment-phobe, a bureaucratic foot-dragger.
And it's not just sports, is it? Your influence seeps into every corner of modern existence! "Interim CEO," "Interim Manager," "Interim Librarian who is really good at her job but they're waiting for someone from outside the district." You are the reason I've put off organizing my sock drawer, the reason my houseplants are merely "interimly" thriving. You inject doubt into the very fabric of being, a constant whisper of "maybe" when what we yearn for is a resounding "YES!" We, the people, crave permanence, certainty, a firm, non-hyphenated grip on our collective futures! Release us from your tyranny! Unburden the Dwan McMillans of the world, and indeed, all of humanity, from your temporary, yet inexplicably tenacious, grasp! Step aside, Interim Tag, and let conviction reign! Please, I beg of you, just... *be* gone!
