"Ew," Cheryl greeted the students as they filed in. "Um. I mean hi."

She'd had it right the first time, actually. She was just being nice. Ish.



"Whatever. I'm Cheryl, and that's Pam," she said, waving vaguely towards the other woman in the room. "Professors Tunt and Poovey, if you're feeling formal or whatever. I still think I should get to make you call me the Archduchess of Canterbuttfuckery, but fine. Welcome to...shit. Pam, what'd you call this one?"

Because she'd had no part in the naming or planning process, as usual.

Pam might need a second, because Pam was huffing rubber cement. What? Cheryl made it look like fun. It seemed better than the prospect of teaching these kids sober, and it wasn’t like any of the administration appeared to give a fuck what they did.

“Oooooooooh man that’s gonna clear my sinuses,” Pam shuddered. “Don’t say ‘buttfuckery’ in class, bird legs. I don’t remember what I called this one. Something about career counseling and the future of the modern workplace? Hey, how’s come I’ve always gotta name them?”

Welcome to your teachers, guys. They were always like this, except when they were worse.

"Because I'd probably say something about buttfuckery in the title and then you'd get mad at me!" Cheryl rightly pointed out. "Don't go through all my glue. I'm due for another dose."

She had a schedule to keep here, you guys.

"Anyway. Welcome to class. We're gonna talk about careers or...whatever you wanna do to make money but not call it your 'career.'" She totally put the air-quotes there, guys. "Like, before I came here, I was the personal secretary of the most powerful woman in secret-agency-running -- or however Ms. Archer wants us to think of her, anyway -- but only because I wanted a little extra scratch. I'm actually an heiress so I don't have to work. That's a pretty good career to aspire towards, by the way: heiressing. It's cushy as fuck."

Take notes, kids.

“Not all of us get to be heiresses, dumbass,” Pam said. Affectionately. They were totally besties, guys. “And you lot aren’t going to get to be what you think you will, either. I mean. Talk to a bunch of eight-year-olds and they wanna be ballerinas and astronauts. You talk to those same people at 35 and it’s middle management, accountant, secretary, still in that dead-end retail job … not a firefighter in the bunch.”

"The ballerinas are all dead by then," Cheryl added helpfully. "35 is like 107 in ballerina years."

She saw Black Swan, okay? (And had loved it for every single wrong reason you can think of.)

"Anyway." She eyed the class, small though it was. "We're doing intros today, on that note. What's your name -- I recognize you already, Mr. Roboto, but you can still say hi -- and what do you want to be when you grow up?"

So that she and Pam could gently burst all your career-oriented bubbles. Except not gently at all.

Pam and Cheryl were totally going to tell you your real career path. If you were lucky, that might end up being your nickname all semester!!!

… wait. Not “lucky.” What’s that other word? You know the one I mean.

[also I am sorry that Cheryl and Pam are ableist assholes. THIS IS YOUR WARNING THAT THEY ARE TERRIBLE PEOPLE.]