Written by: Gabrielle McLaren and Zoe Vedova, Peak Editors
When the academics of academia aren’t for you, you are destined to be a Bard.
This character champions a C+ in all their classes, sprints late into midterms with headphones flying, and has never purchased a textbook in their entire life. However, what they lack in scholarly finesse, they make up for through extracurriculars. They are the captain of the Quidditch team, a member of the SFSS, on the board of a plethora of clubs, and they spearheaded a student revolt (for extra credit in POL 150).
A barbarian does not fear 11:59 p.m. The adrenaline of deadlines and anger at their own procrastination sustains their productivity. If they have an exam at 12 a.m. on Tuesday and haven’t studied by Monday evening, they have the fearsome ability to transcend the mortal world in a state of rage, studying without a single shit, pee, or snack break until they have crammed a whole 1560 minutes of lecture material into their brain.
They turn up to class with the tiniest backpack in the world, but when they sit down in class, they take out a colour-coded notebook, a pencil case with every highlighter colour, a set of gel pens, some gym clothes to go do some yoga after class, a David’s Tea mug, a Swell water bottle, and all the readings printed out, annotated and pristinely preserved in a folder.
If you are stressed in class, they will send you “good energy,” and somehow it works. They tell you they’ve failed every assignment, but are maintaining a 4.0 GPA. Their Instagram is littered with minimalist aesthetic and pictures of their study set-up. They had Marie-Kondo’ed their life in 2017. Their skin is clear.
You hate them.
In your darkest university times, a paladin may appear in the form of a saviour TA. This TA is endowed with eternal patience for your idiocy when you stutter across a response in tutorial, spinning your nonsense into an insightful claim. When your professor puts the midterm right after reading break, a Paladin TA will rise up, fearless even in the face of a tenured professor, to petition the prof to give the class an extension. Their everyday vindication could inspire a cult, and yet they live as a saviour for the betterment of humble undergrads.
In the morning, as you get ready, you clip a carabiner onto your water bottle and slip it into your MEC backpack. It knocks against several Cliff bars on its way in (mint chocolate chip). You then ride your bike to the SkyTrain, get off at Production Way-University Station, put your bike on the front of the 145, and get to class 75 minutes early so you have time to refill your thermos with Fair Trade coffee. You can always successfully find your way around the AQ and always find the library books you need.
After a day of hydration, you bike down Burnaby Mountain and go home without breaking a sweat. You are a Ranger.
If you laugh at danger and thrive on the edge, you are a Rogue. You once saw a Rogue do the readings in the elevator on their way to seminar, and when they got there, they swore in front of the teacher. The Rogue always has a PDF of the $300 textbook you can’t buy used, will submit their essays late without the TA questioning late penalties and never takes notes. They always know what bathrooms to poach free pads and tampons from, what student lounges give out snacks, which days deliver free pancakes, and what clubs are suckers for handing out free pens and supplies on campus.
In the most asbestos-ridden, concrete-heavy corner of the AQ: the Wizard is able to summon perfect Wi-Fi. When they close their eyes and concentrate, wielding their staff, the Wizard is able to clear the traffic of a crowded staircase. Only they can hush the roar of construction or Divine the next bus’ arrival. There is no other explanation as to why this bitch is on the President’s Honour Roll with no study skills whatsoever. Did they just get another scholarship? Yes, yes they did.