Sitting in a class, bored and slightly disturbed by today’s lecture of the relationship between biodiversity, Kant and the book “Lolita,” your mind begins to wander. You look at your professor, who is enthralled by Nabokov’s abundant descriptions of tree moss, and notice something. It might be the twinkle in his eye, or the V-neck sweaters that he rocks so often, but you begin to imagine what dear professor here may have looked like during his collegiate years. That’s when it hits you. You suddenly find your professor unbelievably attractive. You convince yourself that if Rob Lowe were your professor, he would look just like this. Your friends don’t see it. You now have a new excitement for class. You develop delusions that this PowerPoint was made just for you. You fantasize about going to his office hours only to be seduced by him whispering dirty, dirty math problems in your ear. You write notes about him on your friend’s notebook. One reads: “Professor Steamy is all worked up about theory today — HOT.” Your friend looks at you like you’re one step away from tattooing his name on your ass — which, let’s face it, at this point, you are — then rips up the corner of her notebook on which you professed your love. You try to impress him with your vast knowledge of Russian philosophy. You study for hours on end until your friends become concerned with your newfound love of Tolstoy and Solovyov. One day, you set down your copy of good old Vladimir’s latest text and open up a copy of The Cynic and spot a pic of the new BSAD dean. Something about his intense stare or his immense salary catches your attention. You suddenly develop a new love for business administration. Forget professors, you scoff, I’m moving on to executive level love. This column is not meant to be taken as actual advice, but rather as social commentary. The Cynic does not advise you to do or not do any of the activities mentioned above.