shred or die

by sophiewolfe

sophie spenceer

On occasion I remember that I technically live in New England now and oh my god I can’t stop laughing. Like that is so fucked up. Literally what is this place? What is going on? I spent most of the famously terrible month of February walking around thinking that everyone around me was really into cocaine all of a sudden. Always talking about how they can’t wait to “shred” some “powder”? Turns out the truth is a lot less cool than recreational drug use. They’re just all skiers. All of them. 

I knew that coming to this godforsaken school as a person who does not engage in all that winter sport hogwash was an iffy move at best but Jesus H. Christ no one told me it would be this bad. On Friday afternoon all of my roommates left for the slopes and before they walked out the door each and every one of them came into my room to individually spit on me. Last week in my linguistics class some poor dumb girl said she thought it was really interesting how the English language only has one word for snow. As a result everyone in the class took off their ski goggles (which they were all wearing?) and chucked them at her.  

During the weekend there is a brief respite from the horror, but this in itself is a sort of psychological warfare. Ever had that nightmare where you wake up one day and you’re the last person alive and the Earth has been scorched of all living creatures except for you, all alone and wandering through the empty wasteland? Saturday is a bit like that. The vibes are disgusting. I walk my ass around campus solo, rivaling that Edward Hopper painting for my depiction of American isolation. I start to think I might be disappearing. I walk by the mirror in the Davis Center bathroom (completely deserted, tumbleweeds, cobwebs) and I can’t see my reflection in it.

But just when I think everything familiar has disappeared for good and I have somehow fucked off into a new state of consciousness, they come back. At no point in my life does my fight or flight instinct kick in more than when I find myself sitting in the dining hall as a hoard of coked-up, powdery, freshly shredded snowboarding sociopaths burst through the door. They have the look; you know the look. I can’t explain it but I think they all have the same voice. All put together the feeling is akin to that of being run over by a truck, or perhaps a zamboni. Here they come, I think. Skis akimbo, flailing everywhere, ready to decapitate any dweeb who doesn’t dig the lifestyle/ shred the nar. I think that if this is how I die, shit, I might as well. Honestly it feels right. Yeah. Take me out to the ski lift. Let me see what the hype has been about this whole time. Only then will I be able to face death, to look my tormentors in their bloodshot, ice encrusted eyes and feel that I finally understand them. I get it now. Shred that powder.

Categories: february 22 2021, reflections, sophie wolfe

%d bloggers like this: