Funny funny. Oh big ha ha ha with the constant jokes about how my degree won't pay the bills, won't get me a job, isn't worth the sheepskin. Worse were the comments that made it sound like I should be tracking a man rather than chasing down my education like it was a big mean toothy snake, and jumping on it until it was harmless and could safely be called mine. What the fuck do you mean, it won't keep me warm at night? I didn't expect it to; it doesn't keep me particularly happy during the day, either. It's something I do. Let's all stop making fun.

So, freshman year. Before I stopped going to all the stupid events on campus, before I got picky about who was in the same room as me. I went to everything, then, every snide gallery opening, every driedup lecture, every kegger. You might be surprised which of those three was where I first saw the handsome man in the vest. Usually that's a contradiction in terms but this was an exception, maybe because he looked foreign and studious. Wavy hair. I admit it, that's what swung the vote, wavy hair is a man's free pass.

Q. Did we talk?
A. Yes, but not for very long.

Q. Did he kiss me?
A. No. But we kissed.

Q. Did it go any further? Am I going to tell the dirty details?
A. Neither. He was full of dirty details, he suddenly turned very verbal and descriptive, expectant. Had he not said it out loud, we might have done the things he said out loud. In a private spot but still in public, his heavy kegger breath in my ear, leaning in, clammy hands up my shirt groping - it was classless; even with my then nondiscriminatory policies, it felt icky, and I shrugged him away. When would I discover he was a T.A. for Philosophy?   A. The day after I declared it as my major.