Date: June 12th, 2020 5:30 PM
Author: Stubborn racy genital piercing
The tightness of the classics market can be overstated. I'm a tenured professor in classics and I'm doing quite well--I made $3m last year and am set to make at least that much again this year. The benefits of the job are ample--it's easy to spit game at chicks at Clyde's by quoting a pithy passage of Pliny or something deep, mysterious, romantic from Plutarch, e.g., the assassination of Caesar in its original tongue. You roll the Rs which adds to the exotic effect of it all. Young supple undergrads coming onto campus in their caravans of Rovers and Jaguars smelling like morning buns and lip gloss and a little dapple of sunned perspiration from their morning tannings look up to your fifth floor office in the neo-Gothic Harrison Hall where you're deep in a cross-comparison of numismatic evidence using machine learning techniques and pine for you. I've been shot at five times in the field on expedition to improve various apparati critici, once piercing my calf, once into my shoulder, three clear misses, and every bullet has its own memorable story that I regale receptive audiences with at diplomatic events. This isn't always an easy life, don't get me wrong: I'm tortured by tantalizing possibilities in intertextual research that are kept just out of arms' reach because of material loss; I'd literally kill my uncle for more Varro or Quintilian. At night, I'll sometimes stare up at the ceiling of my Sunseeker Predator 84 yacht bobbing in the bay beneath a sky of stars and think about whether the alluvial records of Tiber flooding are accurate enough to really substantiate Aldrete's work.