The Eighth Page

Secret Diary of Darth Vader

Dear Diary, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I mean really thinking. When I was back at Stanford, just having fun and tossing the disc around on the quad, I never thought I’d end up like this. There are a lot of things wrong with the way I live my life. I can’t make any phone calls without being confused for James Earl Jones. It’s embarrassing. I had to have a large teleconference screen installed in my office so that people could see me when we spoke. It’s a hassle. Just once I’d like to call someone up and hear, “Hey, Darth. How’s everything with you today?” Not, “Lord Vader, the rebels just blew up the second $87 billion Death-Star project.” The business world just lacks courtesy these days. I can’t even go to the Post-Office without having to deal with nerdy autograph-seekers. “Dark Lord of the Sith” or “Galactic Emperor” they squawk. I just want to mail my tax forms, and get home in time to watch 24. I’m sick of wearing the same thing every day. I have to wear a plastic helmet to catch my dandruff so it doesn’t show up on my black cape. Somebody even told me my outfit was “sinister” and “villain-like.” I was so offended that I choked him to death. I fell into a volcano and lost all of my limbs. I guess that’s not something I can really blame myself for anymore. But it does explain my most hated enemy: lava. I want to tell Luke I’m sorry for cutting off his hand, but I’m not sure how. I’ve thought about giving it back to him in a box. I shouldn’t be so stingy. I was cheap when I selected that clone army of Imperial Stormtroopers. I didn’t even pay for armor that worked. Their white suits were just made of plastic. I wish I’d killed Yoda when I had the chance. He was asleep in my apartment one night a few weeks ago. I had my light-saber and a garbage bag. I’m not sure why I couldn’t do it. I think it’s because he looks like a dog I had when I was a kid. I’m glad to have finally begun to open up. It’s nice to be me again. Love, Darth Vader –Jonathan Adler