Do me a favor, find a mirror, or a recent photo, a puddle … whatever it may be, and take a good long look at yourself. What you see there disgusts me beyond words.
You’re a portrait of the modern consumer. A sheep led to pasture by its corporate overlords, awaiting only the day of slaughter. Sure, you wear Monclear and Supreme instead of your natural wool, yet the vile stink of conformity among you keeps me from viewing you as anything but the herd animals that are your namesake.
The only thing worse than being one of you small-minded lemmings is the pain of not being one of you. When I first came to Harvard, I sought desperately to “fit-in” with the likes of you. I didn’t yet know that someone who prefers a nice chardonnay to a “natty lite”, someone who went to Exeter but volunteered a lot so knows what it’s like to be poor, someone who would rather talk about the nuances of Marx’s theory of the proletariat than a classmate’s “dying mom”, was destined to be viewed as a black sheep in the cruel little bubble you people have built for yourselves here.
It wasn’t until I found the Crimson that I realized that, finally, there was a place here for people like me. I was granted a pedestal from which to figuratively urinate onto you - the unwashed masses. From here, behind the editor’s desk, I decide the path of all the conversations we have around campus. Final Clubs? WASP Sex Dungeons. HUDS Wokers? American Heroes. My Parents? Ashamed of me.
Through this unassuming newspaper I am becoming God. You’re too simple to realize it, but every action you’ve taken here has been a result of my careful planning. Every breath you take has been a careful tug at the strings I hold over all of you. And soon, I will reveal the net these strings have woven around you. The net from which there is no escape. The net which makes you come to my dorm party (Adams L405) this Saturday at 8pm and wish me a happy birthday and tell me it is cool that I got a job interning at Buzzfeed this summer.