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May 4, 2014 | by  | in Opinion V.C. Guilford |
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The Intrepid VC Guilford

Petersen, is this thing on? *Sound of dictaphone being dropped* God damn it. Don’t write that down, Petersen. Right. Time to get started. It has come to my a-tent-shun that stories about my day-to-day espionage into the student body were leaked to this publee-cay-shun. I’ve been assured the man responsible has been dealt with, sent to the slaughterhouse in a figurative manner, and that I could get my own column in it. At first I was told this thing had a circ-lay-shun of 16,000! Then Petersen pointed out that ack-shu-lee they only print about five-thous-or-so copies, so I’m presuming each flat has a copy next to the shitter or something and you take turns doin’ the crossword. But anyway – enough of that. I want to dispense some of my philos-phy and loife advice, so to speak. Being the drugs issue and all that, I will admit I’m coming down from a bit of the cactus tea I brewed earlier (goddamn rank, let me tell you), but bear with me.

You know, they say no one is ever really themselves. Before that, they were telling everyone to just be themselves, which was bloody daft ‘cause no one really knew who their self was. Now the trouble was, there was a period there where everyone thought that everyone else was being themselves except them. Y’got that, Petersen?

So all you students go around thunking: if I’m not being myself, I better be someone, or else they’ll say, “He’s not being himself”; so who shall I be? A mess, I’ll grant you (no pun intended).

People start saying all sorts of things to disguise this inconsistency, like, “There are many roles to play,” or, “I’m at the time of my life when….”

The thing is, when everyone is being everyone else: it gets out. So now eventually, people are slowly admittin’ that they really weren’t being themselves, so could we all just make it the thing-to-say that everyone was pretending to be somebody else, at least most of the time.

I once knew a man with a ‘fuck the police’ tattoo. On his face. Sure as hell no one was trying to be him, and who exactly was he tryin’ to be? Guess he was the human equivalent of an imaginary number: he shouldn’t technically exist, yet there he is. I wish all the best to you kids tryin’ to figure out what the bloody hell you’re meant to be or whether thinking things like that is even consist-unt with the image you have of yaselves.

Jesus Bloody Christ, Petersen; I just looked in the mirror and I think I met myself for the first time. I seem to have developed some tā moko.

 

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