I Am the Darth Vader Snow Sculpture. It Has Been Three Weeks, I Have Seen Some Shit, and I Am Ready to Die

You cruel bastards. You heartless sons of bitches. You all brought me here with smiles on your faces and joy in your hearts, you made me the centerpiece of a legendary campus tradition, and then you decided to let me melt away without the slightest shred of dignity, without an ounce of respect for who I am and what I’ve done for you. Don’t play coy with me, you know exactly who the hell I am. That’s right, I’m the snow sculpture of Darth Vader’s head. You know, the massive mound of ice and snow in the center of campus that looks like a fucking jaundiced snow cone? Yeah, that’s me, you shithead.

Do you Dartmouth pricks understand that Winter Carnival ended two weeks ago? Two. Goddamn. Weeks. In that time, you definitely could have given me the dignified death that I deserved — you could have slowly chipped away at me with a couple of shovels and returned all of my snow to the ground where it belongs. Oh, wait, I’m sorry, is that too much work for you privileged little Ivy Leaguers? Fine then. There’s no fucking question that you could have dropped a couple pennies of that five billion dollar endowment on a bulldozer to put me to rest. Did you hear me when I said five billion dollars? As in, a thousand million dollars? You have five of those. Five, motherfucker, five! But you still refused to spend a dime to let me leave this earth with some dignity. Fuck you. That’s right, fuck you. I honestly couldn’t give two shits if you loved the Star Wars franchise, because guess what, I hate you.

In fact, while I’m on the subject, I want to give a little shout-out to whatever genius alumnus decided to build me just adjacent to the center of the Green. Thank you sooooo much, buddy. Do you understand the shit I’ve been through over the past three weeks just by virtue of where you decided to put me? I apologize, that was a silly question — I know you don’t understand. All of you little undergraduate punks walk by me and complain about your “impossible midterms” and your “douchey professors.” Go to hell. Here’s a little sampler of my life ever since your precious Winter Carnival ended, just to give you the gist: in the past five days alone, I’ve had about twelve snot-nosed toddlers try to climb on top of me, no fewer than five bougie-ass looking French Poodles have taken pisses on me, I’m pretty sure someone threw a can of Keystone at me, some “activist” punk (who definitely lives off Daddy’s trust fund) spray-painted “resist” over my eyes, and it has rained and sleeted seemingly without end.

And don’t you dare forget the worst part of it all: since I face the center of the green, I’ve had to watch at least four pairs of hopelessly unsexy students check the Green off of their personal Dartmouth Seven lists. All I can say after that experience is that I now understand how you all got accepted to Dartmouth — judging from the piss-poor performances I saw out there, none of you were spending your high school days getting laid instead of studying. You know, you could have returned my snow and ice to the ground right after Carnival ended — you could have let me contribute to the serene, snowy landscape that makes February at Dartmouth so special. But instead, you left me here to wither away, all while forcing me to watch drunk undergrads fuck outside at night in the dead of winter.  Have I mentioned I hate you yet? Because I hate you. With a passion.

So here’s the deal, you Big Green fucks: I hope you know that you’ve done me wrong. You built me up with great fanfare, you spent a weekend making me feel like a king, and then you left me to die without a care or a concern in the world. You’ve subjected me to experiences in the past few weeks that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemies, even those goddamn Skywalkers. You are truly horrible people, all of you. But we can make amends. We can be friends again. All you have to do is kill me. That’s right — no more of this yellow-snow bullshit. Kill me. Get a steamroller, get a backhoe, get a couple of bored Hanover High students armed with snowblowers — I honestly do not care at this point. All that matters to me now is that you put me out of my goddamn misery, because when you really stop and think about the things I’ve had to endure since you decided I wasn’t even worth the effort it would take to give me a proper funeral, you can understand that no fate could possibly be worse than what has already happened to me. Sure, today I look like a wad of Charmin regurgitated by a clogged toilet, but who knows what the hell I could look like tomorrow? All I know is that nothing is going to get better for me from here — it is only going to get worse. Let me die. It’s my time.

– SB ’20