The Public Library

Terrible.

Horrifying.

A cacophony of tired, screaming children and a stream of mothers thinking that maybe they could get hit with a sentence of manslaughter instead of full out murder. 

It’s where I’ve been forced to study and do my homework for months now. I’m the type of person, who, if left alone in my own home to study, would end up upside down on the kitchen counter eating frozen waffles out of the box and counting the hairs on my toe knuckles. If I’m going to get anything done, I need to force myself out of my den of sin and squalor and walk into, well, another one.

The public library that I go to to do work is full of nice people, but they’re nice people who apparently have never heard what libraries are supposed to be. Quiet places with nerds shuffling to and fro, struggling to carry the books that weigh for than they do. A place where tired, overwhelmed, and mildly hungover people can come to do the work that they’ve been putting off for a week and a half. Not here. By the time I walk through the doors and wade my way through the sea of impressively sticky- fingered children to the Quiet Study Room (which should be the entire library, imho), I’m ready to go back home and recount my toe hairs. 

Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll make it through half a page of text discussing just exactly why unilinear cultural evolutionary theory is the best shit since sliced bread, written by some turn of the century racists. The more likely outcome is that muffled shrieks will make their way through the not-at-all soundproofed walls, and I’ll be driven to the point of breaking by their sound and by the ramblings of Tylor and Morgan. 

I should have brought some waffles.