The greatest thing about living in your own place — which includes an internet-connected computer and a fridge stocked with enough food to help you last through a zombie invasion — is that you can barricade the door, close the curtains, and not see anybody or say a word to anyone.

Y’know, whenever you’re having one of those days.

Plus, I can totally eat my Cheetos naked without people getting all offended and stuff.

Tomorrow, I have to drag my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn, put on a tux, a white bow tie, a dress — ahem — I mean, gown, and matriculate.

God.

I came here to work. And instead, they make me wear these god awful bow ties and unflattering dresses.

My supervisor is strange.

Brilliant, but strange.

And it seems to be an inside joke with just about anybody in the math department.

“Who’s supervising you?”, they’d ask.

I’d reply.

Then they’d kind of half-gurgle, half-muffle a snicker. And say something totally ambiguous, like, “Oh, he’s quite the character, that one.”

What the hell does that mean?

So this afternoon…

I walked into his office.

“Hey,” I said casually, “I just realized I have a class tomorrow at eleven, so I may be a bit late for our meeting at twelve”.

“Phil, c’mere,” he said, gesturing.

I walked over to his desk.

On the desk — among the stacks of papers and mess of notebooks were, what appeared to be: two (2) steel magnum revolvers (replicas?), a bottle of vodka, and a large beer mug.

He picked up one of the revolvers and fingered it. Menacingly.

“Phil, this,” he gestured towards the revolver with his free hand, “is what we use when grad students get tensed up about silly issues like that.”

“Fair enough,” I croaked.

Then I scurried out, tail between my legs, trying furiously not to trip. Or sniffle.

Hey you.

Are you the one from Oxford googling me?

Yeah I’m talking to you.

I don’t mind. Not yet, anyways.

But do me a favour and keep it on the down low, y’know?

Writing about all the embarrassing and humiliating stuff that goes on in my life is hard enough when it’s read by complete strangers.

Carry on, then.