The seconds ticked rapidly towards midnight that evening. It was the eve of one of those devilish Wash U Monday’s when, for some reason, all professors decide to assign something major for the weekend. And there I was, alone, isolated in a top floor library cubicle, diving into analytical essays, while simultaneously reviewing statistical concepts (What the fuck is partitioning of variance by the way”¦hm.). Such is life some nights in college: dark, alone, melodramatic, painful.
And suddenly, a noise that broke my train of thought: a loud, crunching, cringing commotion. Then a smell! Oh, what a smell of excess mayonnaise and plastic lettuce!
No. No, no, no. I looked to my left and there you were. Munching away at your Subway sandwich barbarically, so woefully ignorant of the sacredness of the library to the battling student.
However, I let it go. I let you live.
But why is this desk moving now, shifting incessantly while I try to focus on my reading? Why are your elbows flying around like some struggling man drowning? I glare at you again. You’re on your FUCKING IPAD PLAYING A GAME. You’re giggling like a schoolgirl under your breath! Die, die, die, die, die, I think.
So as I lean over to say something polite, a proper, “excuse me, can you please be quiet? I have plentiful work and insignificant time,” you hold up a single finger to my face and reach into your pocket. You pull out your cell phone and say, “What’s up, man? I’m in the library work”¦.”
But now you’re on the ground, weeping in an unreserved astonishment, because I just sprung up like a fucking ninja and dropkicked you in the face. I saw your arms flail and your cell phone disperse in pieces in the darkness. I pack up and leave to avoid consequence. This is no circus. This is a library. So shut the fuck up.
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