For my final column of the semester, I’m giving you all a look back at previous Swipe Rights in the most twisted, tortured and English-major-esque way possible – a poem.

I am the victim of random hankerings for hummus It’s a treat, if you can call stumbling across a clumsy hijabi
in an orange-and-black wetsuit
and questionable swimming/hurricane survival skills a “treat.”

Despite accusations to the contrary, I am not a nice person.
I have a whole legion of frat boys in Hattiesburg and the surrounding area
convinced that my head will spontaneously combust
if I pull my hijab off, and the only way to stop it
is to traverse the Tibetan mountains
seven times by Toggenburg goat.

We’re all reeling from the obvious questions –
when did the political process of the world’s foremost authority start to resemble a reality show?
What has happened to our democratic system?
How did a bouillon cube escape from the kitchen and end up in the Oval Office?

Though not quite as high profile, my scalp and the piece of cloth wrapped around it have inspired some of their own speculation.

Apparently, there’s a fine line between fashion faux pas and crime against humanity.
The hoodjab is a lovely wardrobe piece that happens to reside on the wrong side of that line.

The good news? Trump’s Muslim registry has made it ridiculously easy to hit up homeboy or homegirl or home-falafel.

But dire consequences result when you quit something like Tinder cold-turkey
Thankfully, being dead relieves you of 100 percent of your problems.

It’s not always sunshine and rainbows
The other day, someone randomly messaged me “ISIS?”

If ISIS is a bunch of overly confident girls
In frilly frocks trolling frat boys –

We’ve been going about this whole war thing the wrong way.