It’s Suze, your president. But you know that.
You might’ve just woken to news that your campus is currently being buttfucked by a snow bomb, and it’s true; as I sit here, counting my year-end bonus by the roaring fireplace in my office, snow is indeed falling from the sky.
And before you say “You already cancelled winter classes Susan. If the rest of us had class, we would’ve had a snow day too,” let me be clear: no, you fucking wouldn’t. And yes, it would warm whatever organ beats in my chest knowing you all would be slipping and eating shit on Fairfield Way if this storm had happened two weeks from now. And to lord Satan I pray one does.
You see, it’s the serenity of snowfall that gives me the ultimate clarity to say this: go fuck yourselves. I know you all talk shit about me, in classes early in the morning and in dorms late at night, and in that goddamn buy sell group. Yeah, I’m in there.
I know the things you say: Susan is such a piece of shit, always raising our tuition; or ThAnKs SuSan — wow, real clever. Real fuckin’ clever.
And that’s fine—my soul is as black as the wood that burns before me. I know this. But remember that whenever snow falls in Storrs, Susan is your God and will dictate whether you or not you go to class. And you will never not go to class.
God I wish I could sit back and watch you bitch on Twitter about having to go to class. Just walking around campus and seeing blood and spilled coffee on the snow where someone fell and dropped all their shit and probably cried the rest of the way to class is so good. It’s better than sex, honestly.
Whether today’s snow, tomorrow’s snow, or next semester’s snow is just a dusting or goes well past your soon-to-be-shattered-kneecaps, you will walk to class.
School is always in session.
Go fuck yourself,
President of UConn.