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So you've made the decision to enrol in higher education. Congratulations. Sort of. For the next three years (or 20 if you know what's good for you), prepare to meet people—exclusively while waiting in line for free food—and to drink lots of beer—only ever on the roof or balcony of a very substandard bar, and, of course to learn just how bad pasta sauce smells heated up in a common room microwave.
Good luck out there, friends. Drink in that knowledge! Sleep around! Spew your guts up as often as possible! And, perhaps most importantly, while the hours away as you stare at your tutors and lecturers, narrowing your eyes wondering what the everloving fuck they are doing there. Who are they? What do they do in their spare time? Do they watch The Big Bang Theory? (Of course they do).
So in the spirit of all that, here are all the teachers you will absolutely, definitely have during your tertiary education.
Linda is that nice, middle-aged lady lecturer who most likely teaches literature. If her name isn't Linda, then it will absolutely no question be either Jane, Sue, or Barbara. Nothing else. Linda leans on her desk quite a lot and has no children at 50, which is incredibly cool and "goals." Linda wears linen suits, and bracelets and earrings made of resin. Linda talks about Virginia Woolf a lot and you have your suspicions she may actually be Orlando and is hundreds of years old. Little do you know, those suspicions are correct. As a result, everyone has a crush on Linda. Mostly in the way that you all want her to be your mum. But then, yes, it's also a bit sexual, because no one knows if she's gay or not and that is, frankly, a very attractive quality. Confusing stuff, isn't it? Sexuality? But hey! They say these are the experimental years so go for it, buddy. Do it. Fuck her.
Marty works at the library. He got the job through a friend of a friend, and he's really not good at it. He is never helpful in any way. His favourite band is definitely Yo La Tengo, and he reads a lot of Nick Hornby. Or at least he says he does. He drinks a short macchiato. Marty wears brown Doc Martens and always asks how much a pint is before buying it, even though the cost of a pint has never affected whether or not he bought it. His phone background is a very explicit picture of his girlfriend. He is somehow always eating a sandwich.
About 20 years ago Madame Menzies found herself on a street in Gay Paree (Gay Paris), looking up at the stars through the rain while singing "La Vie en Rose" to herself. There was a figure at the end of the cobbled street—a busker playing the piano accordion. She busked by his side performing a series of horrible, improvised tunes for many hours, before walking the wet lanes of the city together until the sun rose. He was Thiago, and had made his way over to Europe from Argentina with nothing but the clothes on his back. The two spent a Dirty Dancing-esque week together, rolling around in his apartment, making love, and whispering sweet nothings to one another in the language of love: Français (French, luckily) as the rain came down outside. One morning, Madame Menzies woke to find a note beside the bed, "Ma chérie. Forgive me, I have more world to see," it read. The cotton curtains blew in the wind. Menzies crushed the note in her fist, and promised herself she would never allow herself to feel that warm, sweet sensation again: a little something called love. Now she teaches every language in the university curriculum—but not French, never French. If teachers were still allowed to hit kids with rulers, she would.
No one knows Tony's last name and no one ever will. Not even the database. It's just Tony. And Tony is always 15 minutes late to every single class, carrying everything in a very worn leather satchel which has too many badges on it for an adult. He's worn the same pair of shoes for probably 20 years. Tony writes very dry non-fiction books about Marxism in his spare time, and has an iPhone 3. He carries it in one of those cases with all the pockets and keeps all kinds of stupid stuff in there so it bulges to the size of like four iPhones. Tony only watches westerns starring Clint Eastwood, and never shuts up about the genius of Pulp. Tony is the only person you know who actually says "G'day." He's a truly lovely person and you would very much like to go over to his place for dinner some time and meet his two teenaged kids.
Erica is the youngest faculty member and she is just... way too friendly. She often drop hints about joining students for a beer after class but no one invites her because that would be extremely weird. Erica has a tattoo of a fairy or some other hippie shit from her days backpacking around Europe (last year). She lends you books you talked about in passing—to somebody else—and always references stuff no one's ever heard of. She's very into horoscopes and has one of those tote bags with Audrey Hepburn stencilled on it. Ten years from now, you'll see her in a bar somewhere—Hong Kong or New York or something—and she'll tell you she was using prescription uppers the whole time she taught. You'll have a wild night on the piss, buy some ecstacy, go to a club, scream at strangers on the street, and end up back at your AirBnB. She'll try to hit on you but you'll politely decline, closing the door behind her awkwardly as she agrees it's time to leave. I always knew you were special, she'll text you four hours later.
Evil Lonely Teacher
What is this guy's problem?? I'll tell you what his goddamned problem is! This guy—this fucking guy—is miserable. He's deeply, shamefully jealous of your youth and your beauty and your joy. Evil Teacher studied too hard in school. Evil Teacher never went to any parties. Evil Teacher wanted to be Bill Gates but unfortunately was not intelligent enough. Evil Teacher came to resent people who enjoy themselves. Evil Teacher went on many unsuccessful dates in his late 20s—all of them unsuccessful because he was a terrible person to share a fishbowl with. He'd always say things like, "Oh, you liked that book? I find that very surprising..." and so nobody ever called him back. The rejections only fuelled his evil-ness. Evil Teacher thinks the reason women don't want to sleep with him is because they are "intimidated by his intelligence" or are "shallow creatures who won't look twice at a man under six foot." This is not true. Evil Teacher also thinks all women he meets laugh about him with their friends at the pub. That one is actually spot on. Oh, and if you ever talk back to him you're getting a Credit grade.
This guy's name is probably Nick or Jack or Simon but we're gonna call him Justin Trudeau because he's incredibly charming and handsome and nice. You saw Justin at a My Bloody Valentine gig once and yet you never see him around Uni. Why is that? Where does he go? In fact, it would be interesting to know where he lives… And what he's doing teaching... He could be doing anything... Why is he so smart? And aloof? Maybe he'd be up for a drink some time? You've really got to stop going to his classes, you don't even take Gender Studies.
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