7:11 – Arise.

7:13 – Julio brings me my breakfast of warm milk and quail’s eggs. While Julio clips my nails, I ponder the fullness of the meaning of the signifier of the quail’s egg in prevailing paradigms of Western thought. Like the quail in Bambi, we all have to fly, even if it means the hunter’s bolt pierces our breast, and we fall down, down, down. Julio agrees and draws my bath.

8:00 – I spend some time with Jacques (Lacan — it’s far too early for Derrida).

9:10 – I repeat “Carpe Diem” to my reflection 199 times before breaking the mirror with my face.

9:30 – My first class, EP&E 8,002: War, Society, Theory ’n Stuff. During the lecture, the professor uses the word “the” a lot. I ask him what he means by this, and he gets confused. It’s so disappointing to have a professor who can’t cope with the standards of excellence I strive to uphold in my academics. I make a note to e-mail him with my concerns.

10:30 – A cringing Julio brings me a copy of the YDN in which I am named as one of the Elite. I try to explain to Julio, and everyone within earshot, that sometimes weak-minded people try to bring down the uber-menschen out of envy and pettiness. Look to Nietzsche for more.

10:32 – Cry quietly in the bathrooms beneath Commons.

11:30 – Class again, ASSH 013: The Grandest Strategy. The professor reminds us that Kissinger will be visiting our class in a few weeks, and I remind the professor that Henry visits me all the time.

12:45 – Lunch: Julio delivers a Mango Boba tea and some chunks of Brie.

1:00 – My scarf gets caught on something in my path I didn’t see because of my massive dark glasses.

1:04 – Someone mistakes me for a blind person attacking Gallows & Lollipops. I strike at them. They leave.

1:08 – I gnaw through my scarf and free myself. I decide to continue to wear the tatters ironically.

3:00 – First section of the day: LITR 300 Pseudo-Intellectuality. I get to WLH fifteen minutes early and do some jumping jacks and stretches before shouting “It’s Hamma time!” and running inside.

3:17 – I claim first blood in section; I call out the TA on a typo in her handout. She has yet to recognize my dominance and must be trained.

3:22 – She mispronounces “Barthes.” I scoff. Loudly.

3:28 – I can smell her fear.

3:34 – I drop the P-bomb (“pastiche”), and it’s all over. I know it’s harsh to make a TA cry, but sometimes it’s the only way they’ll learn.

4:15 – A small child tries to smile at me, but can’t.

4:30 – Second section of the day, PLSC 069: Tools in Contemporary Political Contexts. Julio is becoming such a good TA. He really knows how to get a good discussion going. He lets me call on people who have questions or comments about my analysis. On my way out, I remind him that we’re out of cocoa butter, and he needs to get some more.

5:30 – Section for EP&E 666 The Will to Power. Brian Earp questions my analysis of post-structuralist impulses in early post-modernist representations of the postal system. As the verbal diarrhea runs from his mouth and soils the table, the discussion and the scholarly tradition at hand, our eyes lock. We both know that this section is like any physiologically viable animal – it can only have one asshole. I nod at him. Tonight, we dance.

6:30 – Dinner: babies.

11:50 – I meet Brian on the roof of Sterling. Julio has brought up a portable radio which begins to play “Eye of the Tiger”. I fling it over the edge of the roof and silence Julio with a look.

11:59 – Brian’s severed head eclipses the full moon for a moment before plummeting downward and landing somewhere near the Women’s Table. Lightning flashes as I assume his powers and feel my abilities of obnoxious pretension expand threefold. I howl into the night, “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.”

4:00 – Julio plugs me in before going to bed. Contrary to popular conception, section assholes do not need sleep. While an hour or so spent connected to a standard AC/DC wall outlet does us a world of good, the only fuel we actually need is the resentment and frustration of others, which we collect via specialized organs located along the sides of our abdomens. Also, we drink the tears of children.

Steven Kochevar is unpacking the construction of scene as space that mediates the reader’s confrontation with a variety of thematic conflicts.