Come Spring term, things tend to get a little heavy—in terms of coursework, that is. (Poor attempt at humor, clearly.)
Therefore, it was no surprise that I found myself surrounded by a pile of papers and books to sort through.
You’re on the third level of the library. You decide that you do not, in fact, want to partake in a friendly dinner with friends. No, you’re on a mission, and this mission does not involve social interactions.
Though you’re hungry, you’ve already resolved yourself to a night of study-study-study time; thus the dining hall is out of the question. There are people there, people who may want to engage in conversation—but you, dear reader, have no time for such things. Not today. Tonight, you only have time for Nietzsche. The only company you'll entertain is that of dead philosophers.
You leave the library and enter Sayles. You’re halfway through the entrance, and you’ve already begun to regret this decision. It’s your fourth time eating at Sayles. By this time, the workers have already memorized your order and begin offering a look which reads, "Is it one of those days?".
You order, because you're shameless, and because you have a couple of hundred of pages to shift through.
You then spill your coffee on a 60-page article on “Somali governance”. You are sad.
But you’re back in the library now! And you even have your own study room! Granted, it’s on the first level—but still, you’re happy! Now you can read Foucault, Nietzsche, articles on modern Somali politics, and complete Arabic assignments while listening to "bad pop" all in the privacy of your own room!
You. Are. Going. Slowly. Insane.
Foucault and Gaga do not mix.
So you stop listening to music. And because you’re in a study room located on the first floor of the library, everything is now silent.
You begin to feel lonely.
Kidding. You do not feel lonely, but because you're incapable of concentrating on a single task for more than twenty minutes, you switch over to your Arabic homework. You like this chapter because it features useful vocabulary like "too busy for" and "thing". Congratulations, you can now say "I'm too busy for that thing" in Arabic!
You're sick of the library, and if the library was a sentient being, you're certain that it would be sick of you too. It's too constricting, and you're too much of a free-spirit to be caged.
And so, you end things. You gather your things and, on your way out, checkout a book of Neruda poems, because all good (see: pretentious) relationships end with a Neruda poem.
Disclaimer: My night wasn't quite as miserable as I made it seem. :)