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In the faculty lounge of this ancient, ivy-clad temple of learning (where the air smells like overdue research papers and despair), she stands like a queen… a very tired queen. Clad in a beige coat that has clearly survived more fashion eras than any of us care to admit, she looks like the kind of person who’s seen at least five versions of “Pride and Prejudice” and rolled her eyes through every one.

As I enter, she straightens, not with the grace of royalty, but more like someone trying to look impressive after one too many cups of decaf coffee. She throws me a glance that could be described as “wry” if wry meant “actively plotting my downfall in a single glance.” When I get closer, she performs the most passive-aggressive move I’ve ever witnessed: a dramatic turn of her back, as if she were a human version of a closing door.

Her hair, a sort of melancholic chestnut, drapes itself in half-hearted strands across a trench coat valiantly attempting — and failing — to conceal a body sculpted in the grand, jubilant proportions of a Botero muse. But don’t be fooled. Dawn is not some soft-hearted fool ripe for sympathy.

No — Dawn is a vampire. Not the sexy, glittering kind, but the bureaucratic variety who feeds not on blood, but on petty drama and departmental politics. Her personal motto, if stitched onto a family crest, would read: “Cruelty plus self-interest equals genius” — in Latin, of course, because aesthetics matter.Each passive-aggressive jab is her morning espresso. Every tiny betrayal, a fine vintage. Her joy is niche, toxic, and weirdly infectious — like a cult documentary you can’t stop watching even as it horrifies you.

Dawn has the same amount of respect for me as a cat has for a cucumber—which is to say, none, and maybe even a little contempt. Just to drive the dagger in with extra pizzazz, she stages a full-blown Shakespearean greeting for the deputy director, like he’s some kind of budget Prince Charming. She laughs, sparkles, unleashes the kind of dazzling smile that could cause minor traffic accidents, and basically turns into Miss Congeniality in real time. Suddenly, she’s all elegance and radiant goodwill, like a human version of a Hallmark card.Her ghost-pale cheeks do this delicate blush, like she’s about to faint at a Regency ball, and even her famously sharp, eagle-esque nose seems to mellow out—caught off guard by her own performance. But her eyes? Still that same tragic shade of brown, somewhere between “burnt toast” and “disappointment at Starbucks.” Lukewarm Monday coffee, reincarnated.

This performance, however, is nothing new. Dawn is the Meryl Streep of making people feel like ants. I’ve heard rumors that she spent a hot minute at the prestigious Sorbonne, while here I am, proudly waving my degrees from two American universities so mediocre, their mascots are just a coffee stain and a sad trombone. But hey, at least I’m qualified to know exactly what this actress is up to.

Dawn’s master plan? Cozying up to both the management and the union to make sure the new recruits get a good ol’ public shaming. Sneaky as a fox, she’s weaving a web to quietly spread her poison to her unsuspecting victims. Feeling pretty secure thanks to her BFF status with the boss, she casually drops in a little informal meeting that only teachers trained in France can possibly teach French culture—because, obviously, the fame and creativity of French speakers all come from Paris, the center of the universe. Naturally.

If Dawn is letting me off the hook, it’s because she’s got a much bigger fish to fry: ruining the reputation of the new recruit, Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie is this stunning, tall, slender blonde from Lille—basically, a walking ad for shampoo—and to Dawn’s horror, she’s also got enough degrees to wallpaper her apartment. When a woman feels threatened by a rival, the claws come out, especially if she knows she’s got fewer beauty points to work with. It’s like a real-life episode of Survivor, but with more lip gloss and less sand.

I take full advantage of this heavenly break to steer my course exclusively toward Africa, making sure not to raise any eyebrows from the local ‘Parisian’ (because, you know, they’re always watching). I also ask the director to let me work part-time, which is a real blessing because it means I don’t have to breathe in the toxic fumes of our academic team anymore. The day Anne-Marie spills all the nasty things Dawn has said to her, we decide to go straight to the dean’s office—because when you’ve got a problem, why deal with a messenger when you can go straight to the source, right? To our utter delight, Dawn gets summoned the very next day. But, of course, because she’s practically best friends with the union, the academic pest isn’t getting kicked out. No, no—she just gets a little written warning for moral harassment. Well, That’s like trying to stop a flood with a sponge — cute idea, but good luck!

After five long years of holy service to our beloved institution (praise be!), we must pause to offer our sincerest thanks to Dawn—whose poisonous charm and passive-aggressive excellence have finally borne fruit. Thanks to her relentless shade, Anne-Marie has thrown in the towel mid-school year and fled to the promised land of Swiss academia, where fondue is plentiful and meetings end on time.But wait! To spare Dawn the pitchforks—and maybe save her own backside—our fearless team leader has demanded Anne-Marie concoct a noble cover story. Enter: the humanitarian alibi. Officially, Anne-Marie is off to nurse her mysteriously ill mother, who, in a plot twist no one saw coming, has suddenly relocated to Lausanne. We wish her well in this brave mission of mercy (slash career upgrade).And me? I’ve been left with nothing but a keyboard, a thesaurus, and the emotional resilience of a tea bag in hot water. Stoicism never looked so fabulous.

Apparently, Dawn has never heard of mental discipline—or maybe she thinks it’s a new yoga class. Her bursts of evil could be toned down if she just tried meditation, or, you know, not being awful. But alas, only her paper-thin immune system and her limited stay on planet Earth will eventually put a stop to the chaos she spreads like glitter at a craft fair.Her madness? Fueled by a fear so deep, even she doesn’t know what it is. Fear of intimacy? Fear of clowns? Fear of running out of Wi-Fi? Who knows.For a while, I truly believed in cosmic justice—“you reap what you sow,” I said, sipping my herbal tea like a wise monk. But now? I’ve realized that sometimes, ranting like a caffeinated raccoon is the only option we have left.

La Rochefoucauld once pointed out that hating those who are favored isn’t the same as not wanting to be favored ourselves. Lacking that kind of privilege stings—but we soothe the pain by looking down on those who have it. We withhold praise, not because they don’t deserve it, but because we can’t take away the very thing that makes everyone else admire them.

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