oral presentationnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

“Oral presentation, huh,” your student friend exclaims, his eyebrows hoping in unison with his stupid smile and neglected beard. He is a goofball and empathises the word “oral”, like he empathises any other silly word the professor utters – and she utters silly words every day, at least according to him.

Yes, “oral”, like it reads in your toothpaste tub.  You look at yourself in the mirror, while you struggle with the chemical aqua flavour pooling in your mouth’s underbelly. You wonder when did those ugly black eyebags appear, and how long it was since you promised yourself to catch on some sleep.

You imagine yourself in your basic boyish shirt and that gloss necktie you bought for $5 in the charity shop. In front of you, your classmates, first row, all shocked faces, half scared, that you, some mysterious creature who sits from the third row and behind, are going to say something. At the right you see the smiley face of that huge lady you call professor, fists clenched as if she was a 25-year-old mum witnessing her child uttering her first words: “please kill me”.

You hate that professor and she loves you, the day you decided to rise your hand and point out how every little app in your phone takes and uses personal information for and against you. You were brave and said “when you don’t pay for the commodity, you are the commodity”. The subject in you class is about linguistics. Yes, she was all into you, and you were just tired that day. You still remember the estranged reaction from your companions, and especially that grin from your horny goofball friend, a grin that echoed “BRUH” in loud silence. Everybody would forget about your little stunt the next week, but you’re still ashamed somehow. Uni is a bit like this.

All that shame and self-hate born in you will be erased and rewritten based on the outcome of that oral presentation, that prime time where each student has a chance to humiliate themselves… creatively.

You need to think of a topic. Your flowery professor said “anything you want, as long as it’s informed and interesting. Your hobbies can do.” Yes, but thinking back, it is a truth universally acknowledged: students in university have weird and unhealthy hobbies. Why, while your housemate Eula experimented the intricacies of homemaking bread and pizza, you started to get into Gothic Lolita fashion. The type of clothing you buy outfit by outfit, that costs you $300 per set, with $200 shipping and $50 customs each piece. It’s the second outfit you buy, and how nice it is to boil a bucketful of rice mixed with tin can tuna, and that’s that, the week’s meal.

Your life may be very interesting and eclectic, but that  is not “oral presentation” material. You ponder in front of your dusty laptop screen, your keyboard smudged by something nasty and delicious you ate last night. You doomscroll a bit and bicker with your mates over Discord messaging servers. You think it would be good to take a walk and think over what you can do, but it’s so cosy at home in your Death Bunny robe.

You end up making coffee for you and your lewd jokes friend, who popped at home just as clueless at you. You decide that both your parents have interesting professions. Why, his mother is a teacher. He wanted to be a teacher, but he quit in year 3. Okay, that’s a painful topic, but a good one for an “oral presentation”. Your father works for BMW. Chain production, particularly. You’ll be a girl talking about cars. Sounds about right.

Assembling the presentation is fun. You know your bits over PowerPoint. It’s easy to learn as you use. Your first slide features a plastic car from that car movie. It has an animation and shiny red letters with a flaming overlay. It’s absurd; you laugh at yourself. You delete everything and start over. You’ll think about it next week.

It’s Monday evening and your presentation is tomorrow. Your funny friend has disappeared. You cough out words in a black and white canvas and pray it will sound smart. You plead over Discord for someone to practice your presentation last minute. Nobody answers. You call your mum. It’s panic time.

You don’t sleep. The great day comes and your instant-noodles-smelling friend is first. You are chewing chocolate-mint gum because who wouldn’t in such an agonic day. You feel your eyebags, they burn and weigh 6 lbs each.

He talks about Japan and virtual YouTubers. Your professor is amazed. Then the fire alarm rings. It’s a drill. You call it a day, and your “oral presentation” is postponed to the next session.