Not checking you out, trust me.

Use me to procrastinate, baby.  I don't mind.

I was in the library for a bit today, and for once, it was actually a good experience: I was relatively productive and nothing about my fellow human beings bugged me to much. (Aside: I do actually like people, despite the somewhat misanthropic nature of most of my posts.  It's really more that things are hilarious than awful, and it's better to laugh than watch your blood pressure go up, right?  Hypertension's no fun.)

This positive experience cannot be attributed to each library excursion.  The Villanova law library is pretty boss, overall, but I have plenty of collected stories from undergrad and a few from here that have enabled me to collect a set of rules for what you should and should not do in a library.  My lovely friend Amy was there for last spring's disaster in the Rock at Brown.

Amy had lovingly saved me a desk so I could study for my comparative animal physio exam the next morning, and we were just outside the Absolute Quiet room.  The first pair of ridic peeps was on the other side of the room, "studying" economics but really studying other things: the girl attempting to figure out if the boy wanted her, and if she could possibly talk about more shallow, pointless things. (Answer: no.  The conversation revolved around "So at the party last weekend, she was totally wasted.  And so was he.  And they totally maybe hooked up.  But there were other drunk people too and I think people we both know may have had sex.  You know?  *hair toss*")  The boy was trying to discover if he could appear more uninterested in life. (Answer: yes, but only if he became a barnacle.)

The gem of the evening was sitting behind me, and I swear, every person she's ever met decided that was THE time and THE place to go find her, catch up, tell her how cute she was, bring her food, give her an abridged lap dance (I'm not kidding with the last one), etc.  The only thing separating the action behind me and a rave is that there were no glowing parts and no one offered me drugs. Which is unfortunate.

I tried headphones, gave her the benefit of the doubt, and continued working.  When her cackling over something stupid breached even the loudest section of Cannonball Adderley's "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy" that's when I snapped.  Lightly, like a tiny twig.  I turned around and said, "I'm sorry to do this, but do you think you could be a bit quieter? I can hear you through my headphones."  She apologized and promised to quiet down.  Roughly twelve minutes later, another of her friends (who were apparently budding off of each other and growing to sexual, yet not actual, maturity in the next room) came in and cackled like the offspring of a donkey with bronchitis and Ed the hyena from The Lion King.  Amy and I were e-mailing and gchatting the whole time, along the lines of HOW CAN YOU BE THIS OBLIVIOUS TO THE WORLD and I'MA HURT SOMEBODY.  She stuck it out longer than I did, because I figured I wouldn't be allowed to take my Bio 118 final if my bail was set at several million dollars.  Y'know, for when I stabbed the girl through the neck with my pencil.  Also, when I got up, she had apparently written two sentences in 3 and a half hours.

This was the worst library experience I've had, but there have been others, ranging from minor ridiculousness to full-on selfishness to the point of wanting to wave my hand in front of the person's face to see if she could see me or legit thought she was alone.  So, therefore, some rules.


Dress appropriately.
This isn't really applying to the temperature of the library, though Brownies know that the SciLi basement can get icebox cold, and my fellow 1Ls realize that whoever controls the temperature in the VLS library is under the impression that if the average temperature is 65, and that's accomplished by making it alternate between 50 and 80, that's good enough.  What I mean by this, actually, is don't come to the library like you're hitting Clutch later. (Jersey Shore reference, check.)  It's a goshdarn library.  You do not need heels and a miniskirt to get in.  Also, is there a reason why you're in makeup that would benefit significantly from dimmer light? How many minutes did it take you to flat iron your hair?  Are those sequins?!  You get my point.  Show up in sweats, for the love of God: it's not a mating ritual. 


Stop claiming desks like they're the New World.
If you need to run to the bathroom, or go upstairs/downstairs for a cup of coffee, or even if you need to disappear for 15 minutes to go get food or run to your car, I won't hate you for leaving your stuff on a desk.  I might not leave my stuff unattended in a library for that long, but I understand the value of hanging on to your desk.  However, when it's reading period, and I got to the library 90 minutes ago, and your unopened books, sweatshirt, and Starbucks cup are taking up prime real estate and I have yet to see you, I hate you.  I really do.  Queen Isabella didn't finance your trip to this carrell, and I'd really appreciate if you moved your stuff, otherwise you gon' find it in the trash can.  I'm climbin' in yo' desk space, snatchin' yo' textbooks up.  This goes for napping in the library: I feel you, it gets tiring sometimes, but when a 20-minute power nap turns into "Gosh dang, I'm guessing a Draught of Living Death was in that coffee, whoopsies" (Harry Potter ref, CHECK), I may start tickling your face with a feather.  


This ain't no mouth marathon, so stop runnin' it.
For serious, SHUT UP.  Short conversations are totally fine, as were project discussions in undergrad in the places you were supposed to be doing it, but I don't want a color commentary on every. single. drink. you had this weekend and every. single. hominid. you spoke to after consuming them.  Yes, there's drama in the world: save it for the stage, honey.  I don't care about it, I don't need to hear it, and this is not the place for it.  Go try out for The Real World and leave the learning to us.  Really, we'll take it from here, since you've clearly dropped it and have no intention of looking for it.  And if this sounded unfair to girls, I'm sorry.  Bros?  Please stop verbally flexing your Y chromosome and put some knowledge into your brick head, because no one except the clone of yourself you're talking to cares how hot that girl was whom you "got with" last night.  If the sentence starts with "Dude, she was..." or if you feel the need to crouch so that your head is below your shoulders while saying it, REEL IT BACK IN, FELLAS.  Your time is your time, but when your stupid time cuts into my learnin' time, somethin' else is gon' get cut.

Commit it to memory.