That damn smirk
Chapter I; or, An Intriguing Proposition
A fresh start - Email correspondence - Crossed wires
A few days before before my first Intellectual History seminar the professor sends out an email asking for a couple of volunteers to present on the first set of readings. One person per text, he says, should present their reflections for anywhere between five and ten minutes.
Fuck yeah, I text back, sounds dope. I’ll do it. Is it paid?
Paid? No, he emails, of course it’s not paid. Why on earth would it be paid?
IDK, I text back, just thought I’d ask. Do you want me to sort out, like, any musical accompaniment? Or, like, a backing track?
I don’t think that will be necessary, he emails.
Are you angry at me? I text back.
I don’t get a response because he’s probably really busy. This suits me fine because I need all the time I can get to work on my wonderful presentation.
Chapter II; or, I Just Don’t Understand It
One charming image - Emojithon - Pocock’s revenge
The text I have to present on is by someone called John Pocock. I Google search him and discover a clever-looking chap who looks like one of those employers in the hospitality industry who just knows if you’re telling a fib to get out of work but who also really likes you because you’re a scamp with a big heart.
Hey, I’m so sorry, you text him, I tripped over my dog last night and I had to go to A&E and now I have a massive bruise on my bum and don’t think I can come into work today. Again, I’m so sorry 🐶 ⬇️ 🏥 😔.
Three minutes elapse.
Oh no! Pocock texts back, how terrible! I hope the bum recovers soon…let me know by tomorrow if you’ll be in on Monday. Enjoy the day off 😉.
I will do, thanks so much, I’m so sorry and I hope it’s not too busy today 👻, you reply, to which he leaves you on read because he’s probably really busy. This suits you fine because you need all the time you can get to work on your wonderful presentation.
J-Gap is remembered today mostly for his theory of linguistic contextualism and not really at all for being an excellent boss who makes each of his employees feel like part of one big dysfunctional but super loving work-family. So instead of WhatsApping him about my shifts next week, I am sat in the library reading a paper of his called ‘I hope you know what the words “antinomial” and “abrogate” mean because I’m going to be using them loads in this essay.’
Fuck me, I think, as I finish reading sentence number two. This is really boring and makes absolutely no sense.
Ok, fair enough, I think, as I finish reading sentence number thirty five. That was actually quite an interesting idea, so I’m going to copy and paste it into an untitled Word document that will form the basis of my presentation.
Errrr, right, I think, as I finish reading sentence number one hundred and fifty seven. You had me for a while, John, but you’ve lost me again. Can you please just go a bit slower and write in sentences that aren’t fourteen clauses long?
Pocock writes that “the language of political discourse, though we can still break it down into a multiplicity of sub-languages or idioms, must now be seen as capable of generating these…hey. Hey. Concentrate.”
“Sorry,” I sniff, “I’m trying.”
“Generating these…generating these…from within the activity of its own discourse, as well as borrowing from, or being intruded on by, idioms originating with….Lia!”
“I can’t do this, John, I really can’t. I’m sorry, but I…errrr…I tripped over my dog last night and I think I have to go to A&E because I have a massive bruise on my bum.”
Chapter III; or, It’s Not the Right Time to be Wearing Skinny Jeans
Premenstrual in extremis - An ill-judged choice - Questions of stance
My outfit of the day is weird, man. I am trying to have fun with my wardrobe because I’m ragingly hormonal so I slap on an unforgiving pair of skinny jeans and try to ignore the fact that my crotch is being spotlit in a way that is really uncomfortable for everyone involved. It feels like my vagina is wearing a push-up bra. I reason that if I just walk and stand with my legs wide enough all day, the problem will sort itself out.
The problem doesn’t sort itself out. I am also wearing heels with socks. Weird, right? Really fucking weird. I hobble my way wide-leggedly to the building where the seminar is taking place. As I sit down and take my laptop out, my amygdala pokes me behind the eye and announces, gosh, I really hope you don’t have to stand up for this presentation, because that means readjusting your skinny jeans in front of a room full of people you don’t know.
Yeah, I know, I say back. I know. It would be a disaster.
You’ll probably trip in those heels too! That would be really embarrassing.
Yeah, fuck, man, I get it, I tremble. I get it. I don’t want that either. Just…just stop releasing adrenaline for, like, one second.
I can’t do that. You know it’s my job. Anyways, I missed a shift over the weekend.
Did you?
Yeah. Tripped over my dog. A&E. Massive bruise on my bum…do you know what, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I’m playing catch-up here, so just suck it up and deal with a double load. I’m coming in hot with a graphic thought-loop of you smashing your REDACTED against the REDACTED of this REDACTED.
Chapter IV; or, I Bet You Can Guess How the Presentation Goes
I did have to stand - If you can even believe such a thing - So I had a hot flush
“Hi guys, hi! I’m, ummm, Lia…I’m presenting on the…the Pocock text…which I liked, I thought it was cool…not as cool as the Skinner text, haha, but cool…it was…it was cool. He…errrr…he thought of language as…ummm…sort of…errr…operating in systems. Like a game. Like…a…a game where all of the players know the rules. That’s how I thought about it. And he…well…sorry, is it just me or is it really hot? Is anyone else, like, really hot?”