I’ll admit it: seeing a piece of paper taped to a wall covered in words like “fun!” and “snacks!” used to drench my palms with sweat. I had trouble walking through Peirce without yelping in excitement upon seeing the majestic array of fliers. But winter break changed me. Last semester, I was fresher than ’90s royalty Will Smith, wet around the ears and bursting with enthusiasm. This semester I am as tired and withered as an old crab apple. A tiny ball of bitterness and apathy is me. At this point, four raccoons in a trench coat could pass for a better human than I and the posters scattered around campus are merely sour reminders of what might have been. Here are the signs I’ve seen hanging around that most fill me with rage and shame.
That pancake at the bottom looks far too happy for my taste. At this point in January, it should be sporting a dead-eyed smirk at best. Currently I only eat my pancakes covered in dirt, to match my potato-fresh-out-of-the-ground-esque exterior. Nice try, makers of small dough circles, but your optimism cannot pierce my impermeable shell of lethargy (or my shell of dirt).
Months ago, a snappy product name like “Life Support” would have immediately enthralled me. Just looking at that reassuring logo of crossed bandages might have given rise to a spontaneous recitation of a Shakespearean sonnet. But now life is nothing but an eternal hangover. If I drank anything other than lukewarm 3% milk this sign might catch my interest, but as it is: pass.
Rush? What is the use of hurrying, friend. In this cruel season, the days creak by, one by one. I remember back in my youth when weeks would float by easily, melding into a glorious cacophony of laughter and innocence. Ah, but I am old and weary and the bitter cold has frozen my joints, preventing me from gamboling about campus as I might have done in my younger and more vulnerable years. I’ll leaving the rushing to those precious few who still have red blood coursing through their veins.
The mere thought of of ascending anything, be it icy stairs or Mt. Etna, is enough to make my lungs heave with fatigue. While others may find this sign informative and perhaps even inspiring, it just makes me homesick for the mole-infested underground cavern of my youth. Oh, how I miss the Mole Mother. If I had any liquids in my body besides the aforementioned tepid 3% milk, I would shed a tear.
Yes, we are all pioneers, Kenyon College, you are correct. But my expansionist tendencies are more akin to the Oregon Trail than higher education. Dysentery is rampant. Wild bison have attacked our covered wagons thrice this fortnight, and our numbers are dwindling. I would ask for help, but all I see are fiercely optimistic signs, shining down on me with a cruel light that I fear will soon leave me blind. Remember me, Kenyon College. Remember me.