Dear Big Daddy,

Hi. It’s me. Kathleen. Well, you’d probably know me as “Kathy” because despite the fact that I was one of your only fifteen students, you never got my name right.

Yeah. I’m not going to lie. I spent most of the semester hating you. I had lots of things to do with my Monday afternoons, and spending three hours every week listening to you talk about Post-Modernism but not really because if your graduate students couldn’t understand it- well then! Neither could we!

You struck me as kind of like a perv. The Playboy, the lesbian article with graphic physical descriptions, when you said your five-year-old posed like a pin-up…yeah, weird.

You wore a pair of earrings. That’s really weird.

Gradually, I warmed to you. Mostly after you wrote loving comments on my paper.

By the end of the semester, I was crying because the class was over.

(Although to be fair, I was crying about…oh…just about everything that week.)

However. If you continue to withhold our final grades for the class, I will be forced to consider you a mean pervert again.

Honestly, man. It’s been two weeks since we turned in the papers. They’re only 7-10 pages, hardly being handed a stack of master’s theses, and you even got to read them beforehand, so you know what they’re about.

Does your partner-of-an-ambiguous-gender really require that much attention that you need more than two weeks to grade FIFTEEN papers?

So. You’re on notice.

Kathleen (Not. Kathy.)


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