Sarcon the Born-Again Schizoid/Graphic Designer: Hey I’m Sarcon! My momma gave me this name because it means “One Who Won’t Ever Finish An Essay Assignment in College” in Hebrew. Every morning I ask God to calm my nerves, so I smoke a joint, then make breakfast for my daughters, and drop them off at school. Just kidding! They’re not my kids. Anyway, that’s why I’m always 45 minutes late. I’m bright, fairly-well-read, and I voted for Obama. But, I also spent five years dressing up as a giant M&M at Twins games, so I’ve lost virtually all capabilities to act like a normal fucking human being. Your class is cake. I already took it at RiverBoat College, but—guess what!—they’re not accredited! Is this college accredited? How old are you? Where did you get your tie? Has someone talked to you about the saving grace of Jesus Christ?

Tito the Adult Softball Player/Chronic Gambler/Medical Assistant: Hiya, this is Cindy, Tito’s wife. Tito would love to be able to write this, but—as you know—for the past 48 hours, Tito has been holed up in a casino compulsively spending away our thin savings at blackjack. It was the St. Louis Park softball league championships two nights ago, and I guess this is how he celebrates. Whatever. He’ll get his assignments and stuff done, don’t worry. The teachers always work with him. It just sucks because he’s usually so good with his son, Kirby, but now I have to watch him. This means putting the padlocks on the fridge, because—as you know from Tito’s first essay—Kirby weighs approximately 350 pounds. And this is a little worrisome for a five-year-old. Tito has been doing a better job of setting an eating example: now he takes his two slices of pizza and energy drink to school in the morning, where he eats it right in front of you through the first hour of grammar. But he’ll be there tomorrow. I promise. Could you just e-mail me his assignments? You probably know this, but I write all Tito’s work anyway.

Betsy the 45-Year-Old Divorced Cat Lover/Budding Paralegal: Gosh! I love this class! Have you read this Jodi Picoult book? It’s a romance. Hey! Will we be writing essays in this class? Just so you know, I haven’t written an essay in over 30 years, and usually they made me collapse into foaming convulsions. Just so you know….do you want a cupcake? I made cupcakes! My last husband said if it wasn’t for my cupcakes, we wouldn’t have had my daughter. Ha! If I wrote my essays on romance novels, do you think I’d get a good grade? I need a good grade in this class. And do we have to type our essays? Oh no! I don’t know the first thing about—hey! Do you think I could write my research essay on Bigfoot?! Not that Bigfoot, silly, but my cat. He gets real strange like whenever he drinks my, well, hey!—oh, you want me to talk about myself for this thing? Ok, well here goes: the U.S. Justice Department has asked that I not talk about any event before 2004. So, I’m Betsy, I’m from—whoops! I better not say that!—I have one daughter, and I will never use a semi-colon correctly. But I will give you the best evaluations of your god-damned life. You’re cute! Do you like Jodi Picoult?

Sheena the Anger Management Sociopath/Non-descript Business Major: I don’t want to write this. I told you I don’t want to write this. Listen, I don’t want to fucking—ahhhhhhh!! Okay, okay. By the way, my 55-year-old live-in-boyfriend Armando who used to sell drugs outside the sawmill but now works as a fluid-vac specialist and has cleaned up and doesn’t do that shit anymore and loves me more than my last man did who put his hands on me, you know, he fucking put his hands on me, and kept me away from my family for five years till I fucking shot his fucking face outside the K-Mart on Lake, well…[five minutes later]…Armando says my last essay really showed improvement, and he was happy to see that you allowed me to hand it in late because he said if you didn’t do that he would find you when you’re out in the parking lot at lunch eating your bologna sandwich or whatever and…yeah we all see you, you pathetic…anyway, this class is really important to me because  my PO officer says if I don’t pass I’ll be back in Stillwater, with the grippy chairs and the electrical charges, and, is it our break yet? Because yesterday you didn’t give us our break on time, and if it weren’t for my court-ordered psychological rehabilitation I would’ve form-tackled you into your whiteboard filled with prepositional whatchamagigs you smart-assed…oh it is? Thanks! See you in ten minutes!

– Dunstan McGill