To an Unnamed Lecturer:

It has been a long time since I have had a teacher who has inspired me to not just want to be good at their subject, but to actually do the work necessary to get there. This week, one of my lecturers (picture man in black, nonplussed expression, always seeming to overflow with energy) inspired me to do just that.
Not only does he refer to himself as merely a “fan” of the “rock-stars of philosophy”, he admitted to finding lectures more exhausting than tutorials, meetings, even conferences, due to his desire to make his students as passionate and excited as he is. Well, it did the trick. I’m off to do my readings now.

A distinction of stars for you, amazing lecturer.

Bathroom Break

As some of us know all too well, college is full of wonderful experiences, but also some, how shall we put it – interesting ones? Thursdays seem to be a particular springboard for these kinds of situations: a wonderful day when most lose their inhibitions, and some, unfortunately, lose control of their bodily functions. One particular Thursday, I thought I’d just better get in a pre-emptive bathroom visit before heading out, and stumbled across a young man (Boy? Man?) who had obviously not taken the same initiative I had and was currently emptying his bladder in a cubicle. Facing the wrong way. Facing outwards.

3 stars because you were so close man, so close, but 1 for complete lack of observation of your surroundings.

To the Beautiful Girl Who Made Me Realise We Are All Beautiful Girls:

I spent my tutorial today not in deep intellectual breakthrough but rather transfixed by the beautiful girl who sat across from me, braids wrapped around her head, dark red cherub lips, velvet jacket draped across her shoulders… “Did you see her?” I asked my friend upon leaving. “I wish I were that beautiful!” At that point my friend drew me aside and told me what I have probably needed to hear since I first started pushing my way through adolescence: “you only think she is that beautiful because you believe you are not beautiful.” And you know what? She’s right. I enact my own insecurities through an idolisation of other people.

Thank you, beautiful girl. Thank you, beautiful friend. Maybe it’s five stars for all of us.

To My Mildly Assumptive Taxi Driver:

As is sometimes needed, usually when it’s raining, or more often after a long Thursday night spent hitting the glamorous and definitely hygienic highlights of the Canberra nightlife, the other day I ordered a taxi. I expected it to be a casual, brief affair – after all, last time I remember a taxi ride impacting my day was when I accidentally fell asleep and the nice driver had to prod me awake, but I digress. The taxi pulls up, and the driver is playing the smoothest of smooth radio stations – 95.3, so charmingly sponsored by The Buble himself. I open the door to get in, he looks me up and down, and immediately changes the radio to 104.1. My first thought – jokes on you, taxi driver, I actually love 80’s Madonna, is slowly replaced by a dawning realisation that my taxi driver is a judgemental son of a gun. I mean, just because my wardrobe consists pretty much solely of floral dresses and cardigans doesn’t mean I don’t love the greatest hits of country and western (and whatever else the C-list Australian celebrity is hosting that segment wants to play).

2 stars for judging on first impressions, but 4 because a little bit of Ariana Grande after a long day at work is surprisingly revitalising.

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