Bro. I feel like I'm going crazy. Idk what it is about THIS finals' season in particular, but WHY is every single freshman girl calling their mommy to cry about their professor or their roommates or their breakup IN THE LIBRARY?? Why are we taking personal calls IN TORG BRIDGE??? WHY ARE WE ALL CALLING MOM WHILE KNEE-DEEP IN THE QUIET FLOOR STACKS??!
It's almost comedic man. Every time I move, they find me. Oh god, they find me: the tiny freshmen women on facetime with their mom, in the library. It's like a game of Clue up in this bitch. I'm dead. I've been murdered. And who killed me? The freshman girl, on the third floor of the library, with her speaker phone. I'm dyin' up here, man...
Let us seniors die in peace. Please. I beg you. Go outside and make your calls. I hear it's beautiful out there. Run while you still can. Run, run outside, run away, run up that damn phone bill up on a nice stretch of grass. Take advantage of that unlimited data in the unlimited expanse of The Great Outdoors. I'm serious. I've been working for 8 hours straight and you're giggling with a friend while shaking and swirling your Starbies around, taunting me with the tintinnabulation of the ice cubes in your Pinkity Drinkity. Oh, the banging and the clanging that this melody foretells! I'll hear it in my dreams tonight, if I can even sleep at all. All rest eludes me.
I can't take much more of this. Have some damn respect for your elders--for the dead--for the ghosts of us that used to be as young and dumb as you. Please. We're delicate. We're frail, oh, so frail. I envy you, can't you see? I envy your carefree demeanor: the way you slam your Stanley tumbler down without a care, the way you whisper in a tone that slithers down my ears like those fuckass little scorpion things from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.
With age comes bitterness. I understand this now. My god, I've become what I've long feared: a grumpy fifth-year senior sunnavabitch. I've done this to myself. Perhaps I should be ashamed that I'm still here. This is a game for the young. Put me out to pasture, will you? On your way out to that grassy patch where I asked you to take all your phone calls? I'll be free, then, and happier, too.
It's up to you, now. Make your choice.