To the girl whose earlobe I accidentally licked in Life
You don’t know me, but I have licked your earlobe in passing. Only once, unfortunately, and it was inadvertent – you were dancing wildly in Life, I was yawning grotesquely next to your face… things just collided. But I could never forget the ecstasy experienced by my poor taste buds when they touched upon that softest of caruncles.
I have little time; I am a Finalist; I must hurry. But wait any longer I cannot – my adulation for you must be vented, in a student newspaper if necessary. My prolonged efforts to search for you on various social media have been in vain, ignorant as I am of your surname. In all honesty, I only know your first name because a portly inebriate screamed “Sorry Janet!” at you after she threw up on your left hip. I was watching you writhe lithely from across the dancefloor. You were – need I say it? – sublime.
The emetic discharge that adorned your hip after that unfortunate incident did nothing to diminish my ardour; in fact, when you appear in my daydreams (you never fail to), you are wearing different clothes, yet your side is still inexplicably covered in sick. May such vivid visions, such febrile fantasies, act as testament to my unceasingly amorous intentions.
It is because of these intentions that I now submit myself prostrate before you, or whatever the virtual equivalent of that is. You can be mine, Janet, and I can be yours; and I swear, come rain or shine, that if anyone ever again spews vomit at you, I’ll be the first to clean it up.
So hurry no longer, and add me on Instagram.
Credit: Sarah Howden
To my First Year Room… (With thanks to When Harry Met Sally)
I love that you get unbearably cold in winter, because whoever built you was more concerned with carving a beautiful window seat than installing double glazing. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to warm up after I put the radiator on, and a week after I wash my clothes to stop smelling like damp. I love that when I throw my window open I can hear rustling trees and the knock of croquet balls (although only within designated hours). I love that after I’ve spent a day with you, all my clothes smell inexplicably of burnt hot cross bun even though I don’t own a toaster. And I love that you’re the last thing I see before I go to sleep at night.
And it’s not because I was a lonely fresher with only her room for company (OK… it’s partially that), and it’s not because I know in four weeks I’ll be gone. It’s because when you realise you’ve got the best room in college, you want everyone else to be as jealous as possible.
An ever-grateful fresher
Credit: William Cresswell
To My French Supervisor
Why are you so great?
You’re so clever you make Beckett interesting and Surrealist poetry tolerable. Even when I write a terrible essay in thirty minutes, you point out the decent bits. Not only do you know about all the crazy things the French Department thinks it would be good to include in the exam, you know all about my other papers too. You even know about the obscure, indie world cinema that I watch.
An hour is too short a time to be supervised by you: like watching Game of Thrones, those sixty minutes pass without me even noticing. As if this wasn’t enough, you snagged such a lovely room in college too, with its comfy sofa, stunning views, high ceilings. And instead of using our tuition fees to guzzle vintage wines and dine at High Table, you stand up for students’ rights in college meetings.
On behalf of all of us, I thank you. Please don’t ever change.
Anonymous French student