First Class Snitches

Sometimes, I wish I could treat this website like an actual diary, to strictly categorize it as just a personal blog. But then again, "the internet never forgets" rings deep in my ears, and oversharing on your WhatsApp status has far less bounce-back compared to oversharing on the world wide web.

So, take this as a sort of diary entry—finding the middle ground between oversharing and still blogging.

Being a student can be exasperating, but being a final-year student is even more taxing.

 It’s strange how, in some ways, final year feels less unrestrictive, yet in others, it’s suffocating. Running around, trying to schedule with your project supervisor is exhausting. And don't get me started on the mental fatigue. Everyone expects you to sit up this last quarter, but all I want to do is lie down right before the finish line. But of course, how silly would that be?

But then, how do you juggle it all when a lecturer decides to pick on you?

That seems to be my biggest issue right now—at least since last week Sunday.

You see, my coursemates were just normal, regular students back in year one. We might not have loved each other or anything cringe-worthy, but at least we were just students—a group of strangers, all sharing the singular goal of graduating and that was all. I, for one, enjoyed studying psychology—I still do, by the way. No one chose this course for me; I did, stubbornly too, so no one has the power to pause my passion. But back then, I was also in awe of all the lecturers. Life was good—normal.

Until year two.

That was when we were introduced to a certain lecturer, and something in my coursemates switched... Or maybe something inherent in them was simply activated.

Some of us became weird. I can understand, to an extent, being a teacher’s pet and its quietly whispered benefits. But only in past tense. I wouldn’t even judge if you were a teacher’s pet all through secondary school. But now? In final year? I’m throwing side-eyes and glares at those who still seek validation from... lecturers.

I wonder—

Is it because I grew up in a home with love?

Is it because I have a social life of my own?

Is it because I am surrounded by people who genuinely like me?

I still don’t understand the basis of being a lecturer’s pet. What fuels it?

And I wonder, dearest reader, have you ever encountered an annoying teacher’s pet?

If you have, count yourself lucky. At least now, you’ll make conscious efforts to ensure your child gets all the love and attention they need from you—so they don’t go searching for it from someone whose only job should be to educate.

These lecturer-pet coursemates of mine do something even weirder—they go undercover.

And the fact that they have to be undercover proves, to some extent, that even they recognize it as loser behavior. Think about it:

Sneaking into the lecturer’s office when none of their coursemates are watching.

Gossiping and damaging their fellow students’ reputations.

Pulling up screenshots—even handing over their phone so the lecturer can read our class group chat.

Hiding their pandering.

If they truly believed their actions were normal, they wouldn’t hide them.

So, it brings me back to my question—

What causes someone to be a teacher’s pet?
Especially as a university student?

I pray my children never have to know the answer because that would mean I’d failed as a mother.

I edited out a lot of details because, in a federal university, you have to tread carefully. That alone is annoying, but imagine schooling with First Class Snitches. Now, you have to watch what you say on your own website—one you paid for—because they might screenshot your words and manipulate you into trouble. So, this is me treading carefully, but long story short, watching someone scream at my face before smashing my power bank and fan on the floor has left me partially scarred. 

But enough of the bad news.

I attended a fun party recently, and I wonder—

Is there a middle ground between the confidence and removal of over-thinking that alcohol gives you and the reckless, endangering behavior it empowers?

I enjoy how carefree I become once the effects of alcohol have kicked in, I enjoy how my thoughts go silent. How I finally feel out of my head—no overthinking, no questioning. I just do things and realize I shouldn't have been overthinking in the first place. In some ways, it’s almost the same effect as drinking coffee and feeling calm. But while coffee makes me relaxed, alcohol makes me hyper—buzzed instead of calm..

 But, I don't like how carefree I become, basically reckless and I don't mean kissing anyone or doing anything silly, I mean too courageous, too confident and it frightens me because omg who are you!?

 I mean, I’m definitely entertaining when I’m drunk, but I say every thought that crosses my mind. And in some ways, it’s... scary. I have the craziest thoughts, and no one should have automatic access to them. I say the craziest things, and... I don’t want to!

So I wonder, is there a middle ground? Something that unlocks that confidence and brings me out of my head but still gives me a sense of control—at least over what comes out of my mouth? 

The worst emotion to feel? 

To end this middle ground diary entry, I'd say out of all the emotions I experience, regret has to be the worst emotion. It weighs me down and I don't know if it's because regret kind of reminds you that life isn't reversible and that's absolutely not fair.

Regret is so irritating because—what do I do now? I can't go back in time... But oh well, I cope by telling myself "At least, now you know better" but I wish I knew better you know? I wish I knew better and vetted my friends properly, I wish I knew better and didn't entertain situations that didn't serve me, I wish I knew better and didn't give my love out to people who don't deserve it. Regret. 

How about you? What's your worst emotion to feel? 

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Thank you for reading.