“You should come out to the formal,” I told one of my students, rather matter-of-factly. “Dress up and have a good time. Bring your sister as well.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’ll be great,” I assured her. “I’ll be there,” I said, as if my being there was worth the price of admission alone.

“What am I going to do there?” she stubbornly asked.

“Mingle? Enjoy the company?”

“I wouldn’t know anybody there…” she continued.

“You’d know me!” I said, with an arrogant puff of my chest and a silly grin on my face.

“But aren’t you like…King Shit in the math department?” she asked innocently.

“…King…Shit…?” I slowly repeated, confused.

“Yeah, like V.P. of the Math Society and everything. Other people say you’re like, King Shit. You’ll be too busy with everybody else.” she accused, as if it was painfully obvious.

It’s not often I’m left speechless. Then again, it’s not often I’m called “King Shit” of anything.