About once every generation there is a philosophical question so pressing, so absolutely astounding that it defines an era. For us, or for me anyway, that question is, “Is it possible for my professor to spit on me from four rows away, like, for real, how is that sort of trajectory even possible.”
On more than one occasion I have been innocently sitting in lecture, paying scrupulous attention, minding my own business, when it hits me: a stray, moist droplet coming from the front of the room.
Now, as a general precaution I always keep a distance of at least eight feet between myself and any professor (who knows what could happen if you get too close to someone who has willingly dedicated their life to academia) so it’s not like I’m directly “in the splash zone,” as they say. Even still, every once in a while I’m struck by this mysterious droplet. Could I be imagining it? Undoubtedly. But nonetheless I am left wondering whether or not foreign saliva just touched my face, uneasy with the knowledge that I may never have a true answer; Alas, such is life.
Ultimately, I guess it doesn’t matter if it is spit or not, for if I am left pondering the identity of said moisture during sleepless hours of the night, it might as well have been spit in the first place.