Miss J -- You warmed my heart the first day of class, with your horrified mug. You had signed up for Junior Miss Faculty -- the one who is desperately kissing student ass because she wants to be popular. Instead, you got me -- crusty old crab cake. You've never really recovered, and sit, looking mildly horrified, through every class. I'm ever so sorry that I actually don't care to hear your opinions on what could make you happier, or make me a better teacher. I don't care if you like me or not, nor do I care what your opinions are of my clothes. No, we can't "hang out" -- and I am vaguely disturbed at the implications that you and Junior Miss Faculty meet up at bars. See, you're under 21, and she's being a twit.
Mr. P -- Your ever-changing hair colors never cease to amuse me. You're a veritable rainbow! Surely Manic Panic is kept in business by you and you alone. We have class twice a week, and each time we meet, your hair is a different color. It's a shame your intellect isn't as bright as your hair -- indeed, your coiffure is the most interesting thing on (or in) your head.
Miss K, companion to Mr. P -- Stay away from magnets. I fear your face will be pulled off, given all of its metal accessories. How ever did you get the bridge of your nose pierced? Oh, you did it yourself? My, what fortitude. Perhaps if you applied such determination to your papers, you'd not be failing. Mrs. H -- it's always hard for adult students to join in with traditional undergraduates. However, you're a fellow student, not a surrogate mom to them. please refrain from giving "motherly" advice and scolding. Just because you and I are the only 'real' adults in the room does not give you license to be my sidekick. Let me handle the classroom. You need as much help as they do in the writing department. I don't care how they did it at Moose Knuckle High in 1957 -- I promise you that the APA style has changed since then.
